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OF  CALIFORNIA 

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l_Ow    ^•«'> 


"LOVE   AND    QUIET    LIFE 


>» 


"Love  and  Quiet  L'fe" 


Somerset  5^Slls 


BY 

WALTER     RAYMOND 

Author  of  ^^  Gentleman  Upcoti's  Daughter"  '■'■Young  Sam  and 

Sabina  "  etc. 


|(efo  gork 
DODD    MEAD    AND    COMPANY 

1894 


CoprmcHT,  1894,  BY 

DODD,  MEAD,  AND  COMPANY, 

All  rights  ri4*rvid. 


2ZI    I 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

CHAPTER    I 
Sutton  Town ,        i 


CHAPTER  II 
The  Ivory  Miniature 'IS 

CHAPTER  III 
Tranter  Coombs 20 

CHAPTER  IV 
A  Determined  Fellow 29 

CHAPTER  V 
All  Hurry-push 40 

CHAPTER  VI 
The  Primitive  Pastoral  Parish   .....      53 


5^^962 


vi  Contents 

PAGE 

CHAPTER   VII 
TiiK  Stranger 60 


CHAPTER  VIII 
Crammer's  Pitchers 79 

CHAPTER   IX 
"Chee-halo!  Halo!" 91 

CHAPTER  X 
An  Old  Hymn  and  a  Nkw  Book loi 

CHAPTER   XI 
Charity,  with  a  Digression  into  Love       .        .        ,116 

CHAPTER   XII 
Sutton  in  Arms 134 

CHAPTER  XIII 
Springtime 146 

CHAPTER   XIV 
Girt-gran-dadder  A-tookt 159 

CHAPTER  XV 
Mr.  Percival's  Proposal lyy 


\ 

Contents  vii 

PAGE 

CHAPTER   XVI 
A  Pretty  Upstore   ....,,,,    191 

CHAPTER   XVII 
"  A  Song  o'  Sixpence  " 201 

CHAPTER    XVIII 
Pixy-Led 210 

CHAPTER  XIX 
The  Fire  of  Bristol       ...,,,,    223 

CHAPTER  XX 
Bridgetown  Riors   ....«••.    237 

CHAPTER   XXI 
No  One  Left •       •    250 

CHAPTER  XXII 
Tamsin's  Return      ....  •        •        .    257 

A  PosTscRipr      ..«••••.•    263 


PREFACE. 
*'LovE  AND  Quiet  Life." 

The  kind  reception  accorded  by  American 
critics  to  my  two  West  of  England  stories,  en- 
titled "Gentleman  Upcott's  Daughter"  and  "Young 
Sam  and  Sabina,"  under  the  pseudonym  "Tom 
Cobbleigh,"  induces  me  to  preface  this  volume 
of  Somerset  Idylls  with  a  few  remarks  upon  the 
rural  life  therein  sought  to  be  portrayed.  Even 
in  the  Old  Country  the  student  of  rustic  man- 
ners and  modes  of  thought  is  not  unfrequently 
met  with  the  inquiry  "  But  do  these  things  still 
exist?"  "Is  the  dialect  still  spoken  as  much 
as  formerly  ?"  and  "  What  is  the  result  of  the 
school-board  and  modern  system  of  education  ?" 
It  must  be  confessed  that  changes  are  rapidly 
taking  place  and  that  this  latter  part  of  the 
nineteenth  century  must  be  regarded  as  the 
sun-set  of  old  English  life.  Truly  in  remote 
districts,  villages  on  the  moor,  and  hamlets  on 
the  hillside  does  the  old  spirit  still  linger  un- 
disturbed, and    there    at    this    moment  it    catches 


lO  Preface. 

a  new  poetic  beauty,  as  it  were  the  glow  of  a 
departing  day. 

This  only  would  I  say,  that  although  I  have 
thought  it  well  to  date  my  story  somewhat 
early  in  the  century,  I  have  drawn  my  pictures 
direct  from  life  as  it  may  still  be  found  in 
quiet  nooks  and  corners  of  my  remote  county  ; 
feeling  assured  that  changes  come  about  so 
slowly,  that  one  has  only  to  leave  out  the  new 
social  conditions  now  in  binding,  to  present  a 
truthful  picture  of  the  life  that  is  passing  away. 
In  my  studies,  therefore,  I  have  ignored  the  rail 
across  the  moor  and  the  telegraph  wire  wind- 
ing over  the  hill.  I  have  gone  in  search  of  the 
old  and  quaint,  but  I  have  presented  nothing 
that  I  have  not  found.  True,  the  modern  farmer 
poisons  his  seed  and  the  rooks  are  too  wise  to 
swallow  it,  yet  I  found  my  Johnny  Sandboy  on 
the  field  of  winter  wheat  and  learnt  his  songs 
from  his  own  lips. 

It  is  my  hope  that  the  west  country  dialect 
in  which  much  of  my  dialogue  is  written,  will 
give  the  American  reader  little  trouble.  I  have 
sought  to  write  it  in  its  purity,  making  much 
of  those  forms  which  are  familiar  in  modern 
English,  although  lost  in  instances,  still  retained 
in   rural  speech.     Hourly  we  speak    of    "  to-day," 


Preface.  i  i 

"to-morrow,"  yet  we  smile  when  country  folk 
say  "to-year"  and  "to-once."  And  what  is  the 
distinguishing  initial  vowel  of  the  past  participle 
of  the  rustic  but  a  heritage  from  our  Saxon  an- 
cestors, or  a  first  cousin  to  the  modern  German 
from  "A-want," — how  like  it  is  to  "gewandt." 
With  this  I  offer  my  Idylls  to  a  public  which 
has  always  been  kind  and  sympathetic  to  Eng- 
lish writers. 

Walter  Raymond. 

Yeovil,  Somersetshire,  1894. 


CHAPTER   1 

SUTTON    TOWN 

At  the  entrance  to  the  h'ttle  village  of  Sutton 
stands  a  small  square  house.  At  the  back  lies  a 
Somersetshire  moor  ;  and  in  front  a  ridge  of  hills, 
not  high,  but  suddenly  rising  steep  and  abrupt, 
and  crowned  with  copse,  alternating  with  large 
patches  of  gorse.  The  slope  is  checkered  like 
a  chess-board,  with  fields,  both  arable  and  grass. 
But  for  a  few  gentle  undulations,  the  hill-top  lies 
even  against  the  sky ;  and  the  edge  of  the  moor 
below  draws  a  line  as  level  as  the  water  which 
formerly  lapped  the  foot  of  the  hill. 

The  town  (for  town  it  was  called,  although  never 
more  than  half  a  score  of  houses)  consisted  of  one 
undeviating  street,  with  cottages  and  small  home- 
steads on  either  side.  Hidden  from  the  moor  by 
dark  orchards,  its  position  was  indicated  by  an 
irregular  row  of  tall  poplar  trees.  In  summer-time, 
a  thin  film  of  grey  smoke  hanging  along  the  hill- 
side betrayed  the  presence  of  this  cluster  of  human 
habitations.      In  winter,  thatch  and  gables  and  a 

^  I 


^ 


2  "  Love  and  Quiet  Life  " 

corner  of  the  old  church  tower  peeped  between  the 
leafless  trees.  But  everything  was  sheltered  and 
secluded,  except  the  solitary  house  standing  alone 
on  the  margin  of  the  moor. 

That  was  whitewashed,  and  might  be  seen  for 
miles — with  its  square  windows,  sometimes  black 
as  ink  and  sometimes  glistening  in  the  sun  like 
gems,  its  slate  roof,  rising  like  a  pyramid  from 
the  square  walls,  with  a  square  chimney  at  the 
point.  From  the  distance  it  looked  like  one  of 
those  small  meeting-houses  not  uncommon  in  that 
part  of  the  country  ;  but  drawing  near  you  found 
the  windows  curtained  and  the  garden  carefully 
kept. 

In  the  early  summer  of  the  Year  of  Grace  1830, 
two  girls  were  standing  by  the  border  between  the 
path  and  the  laurel  hedge.  The  one  holding  the 
water-pot  was  tall  and  thin,  with  dark  hair  and 
large  black  eyes.  Her  dress  was  very  plain,  almost 
Puritanical,  but  marked  with  that  daintiness  which 
results  from  instinctive  attention  to  the  person. 
The  other,  who  waited  on  her,  in  a  print  frock  with 
bare  arms,  brought  buckets,  one  in  each  hand,  with 
a  hoop  to  keep  them  from  her  skirts.  She  was 
younger,  but  stouter,  stronger,  richer  in  physique, 
and  the  sunlight  falling  on  her  brown  hair  tinged 
it  with  red. 

"  I  almost  think,  Tamsin,  that  will  be  enough," 


Sutton  Town  3 

"La!  Miss  Marion.  An'  to  think  that's  the 
last  bucket  I  shall  carr'  vor  ee,"  said  Tamsin, 
stepping  forward  to  replenish  the  pot. 

"But  it  is  not  far  to  Mrs.  Culliford's.  And 
when  you  come  down  to  the  village  you  must  not 
forget  to  look  in  and  see  me.  And  you  must  keep 
up  your  reading  and  writing  and — why  have  you 
tied  up  your  apron  like  that  ?  " 

The  girl  blushed,  her  lip  quivered,  and  she 
glanced  quickly  round  the  garden  to  assure  herself 
that  they  were  free  from  observation. 

"  I  thought,  Miss  Marion — if  you  'ood  n*  take 
offence — I  thought  where  or  no.  I  mean,  I  cou'dn' 
a-bear  to  goo  an' " 

"  Oh,  Tamsin !  You  shouldn't.  You  really 
shouldn't." 

From  her  apron  she  had  taken  a  dog,  a  large, 
white,  china  dog  with  a  gold  chain  around  its  neck, 
such  as  may  still  be  sometimes  seen  upon  a  cottage 
mantelpiece.  The  choice  had  taxed  her  thought. 
The  expenditure  had  not  been  unimportant.  Of 
the  liberty  taken  she  was  well  aware.  And  now 
in  the  supreme  moment  her  action  seemed  doubt- 
ful, and  she  was  on  the  verge  of  tears. 

"  Of  course  I  am  delighted,  Tamsin.  Really 
delighted.  But  it  must  have  cost  you  so  much. 
I  shall  value  it  more  than  anything,  and  keep  it  in 
my  own  room." 


4  "  Love  and  Quiet  Life  " 

"  Do  ee  like  un,  Miss  Marion  ?  "  The  girl's  face 
had  brightened  with  delight. 

"  I  do,  indeed." 

"  I  thought  you  'ood.  I  never  ca'n't  abide 
them  there  liver-coloured  ones  myself.  An'  you've 
a'ways  a-bin  so  kind  a-larnen  o'  me.  I  shall  never 
forget  ee  so  long  as  I  do  live.  An'  oh !  Miss 
Marion.  Not  pay  my  money  if  vather  do  slip  in 
vor  the  box.  Not  but  what  mother's  so  good  as 
I  be  myself" 

"  I  will  be  very  discreet.  Now  carry  this  in, 
Tamsin,  to  my  room.  I  will  not  show  it  to  father 
to-night.     I  am  coming,  too." 

They  went  upstairs  to  the  bedroom  looking  out 
upon  the  moor.  The  china  dog  was  safely  placed 
upon  the  mantel-shelf 

"  I  must  kiss  you,  Tamsin." 

There  were  also  tears  in  the  eyes  of  Marion 
Burt ;  for  the  house  would  be  quite  strange  when 
Tamsin  was  gone,  and  she  loved  her. 

An  elderly  man  came  from  the  further  end  of 
the  garden,  between  the  espalier  trees  and  the 
filbert  bushes,  glanced  at  the  buckets,  and  waited 
in  the  porch. 

"  Marion  !     Are  you  ready  for  our  walk  ?  " 

"  Coming,  Father." 

In  rain  or  sunshine,  keeping  closer  accuracy  than 
the    clock  in  the   church    tower,  at   nine   in   the 


Sutton  Town  5 

morning  and  three  in  the  afternoon,  in  winter,  but 
in  summer  at  six,  James  Burt  and  his  daughter 
passed  through  the  iron  gate  at  the  end  of  the  path 
and  walked  out  into  the  world.  They  never  varied 
from  day  to  day,  but  only  with  the  seasons. 
They  took  always  the  same  direction.  Past  the 
cottage  of  the  Sandboys,  built  upon  a  strip  of  way- 
side waste ;  past  Josiah's  homestead  with  the 
gigantic  stone  porch,  and  the  wall  of  Abraham 
Bartlett's  barton.  Then  across  the  road  to  the 
raised  causeway  before  the  door  of  Mrs.  Carew, 
and  so  down  the  street.  By  the  west  wall  of  the 
graveyard  there  opened,  in  those  days,  a  narrow 
passage,  called  by  the  country  people  a  "  drang  "  ; 
thus  they  entered  a  lane  leading  by  a  hollow 
through  the  wood  and  away  over  the  hill.  Slowly 
they  passed  along  the  hill-top,  sometimes  strangely 
magnified  against  the  sky,  descended  the  winding 
path  beyond  the  gorse,  and  returned  home  by  the 
willow-bounded  road  skirting  the  moor.  The  lack 
of  imagination  implied  in  *.  this  never-varying 
routine  astonished  even  Sutton.  As  Mrs.  Culliford 
remarked  to  Mrs.  Carew,  not  once,  nor  twice,  but 
hundreds  of  times  : — 

"  If  Mr.  Burt  and  his  maid  mus'  goo  the  very 
same  walk  twice  every  day  o'  their  lives,  why  not 
sometimes  take  un  t'other  way  about  ?  " 

"  An'  that's  what  I  do  zay,"  said  Mrs.  Carew. 


6  *'  Love  and  Quiet  Life  " 

Sutton  itself  was  less  imaginative  than  prone  to 
minute  observation,  and  not  particularly  apt  to  be 
severe  upon  absurdities,  of  which  it  unconsciously 
committed  not  a  few.  Yet  it  felt  dissatisfied  with 
the  demeanour  of  James  Burt. 

To  this  village,  where  the  ancestry,  the  business, 
the  opinions  of  everybody  were  known  to  all,  he  had 
come,  a  stranger,  when  the  girl  was  a  little  child. 
Now  she  was  nineteen,  and  nobody  one  whit  the 
wiser.  Young  and  old  turned  to  look  at  her ;  but 
painfully  conscious  of  attracting  attention,  as  she 
passed  along  the  causeway  she  used  to  quicken  her 
pace.  With  lagging  steps  her  father  followed  a 
few  yards  behind,  thus  favouring  a  tradition  that 
this  strange  couple  did  not  talk. 

He  was  of  less  than  middle  height  and  past 
middle  age.  His  features  were  fine  and  regular  to 
severity,  but  the  soft  grey  eyes  beneath  his  shaggy 
eyebrows  appeared  incapable  of  wrath.  That  his 
hair  was  white  as  silver  did  not  add  to  his  years, 
for  there  was  a  quality  of  sad  serenity  about  his 
countenance  begotten  rather  of  sorrow  than  of 
age.  His  face,  always  closely  shaven,  indicated 
much  intellectual  power,  but  this  proved  no  recom- 
mendation amongst  people  prone  to  regard  a  new 
idea  as  a  dangerous  explosive.  His  mouth  was 
vacillating,  but  sweetly  benevolent.  He  would 
step   off  the    causeway  to   make    room    for    the 


Sutton  Town  7 

humblest  villager.  But  in  Sutton  meekness  was 
no  passport  to  public  favour. 

The  inhabitants  of  Sutton  might  easily  have 
been  divided  into  two  classes.  The  one,  coarsely 
boisterous  in  its  enjoyment  of  life,  laughed  merrily 
at  these  incomprehensible  neighbours  ;  the  other, 
grimly  perceiving  how  small  a  section  of  humanity 
would  be  qualified  for  enjoyment  in  the  life  to 
come,  abstained  from  laughter  in  anticipation  of 
eternal  joy.  They  loved  one  text  and  lived  by  it — 
"Because  strait  is  the  gate,  and  narrow  is  the 
way  which  leadeth  unto  life,  and  fezv  there  be  that 
find  it."  They  emphasized  the  paucity  of  the 
elect.  There  was  comfort  in  this  vast  exclusive- 
ness.  In  a  topsy-turvy  world,  where  the  rich  and 
high-born  are  not  always  the  brightest  examples  of 
piety,  it  did  the  hearts  of  the  chosen  good  to  know 
themselves  a  spiritual  aristocracy.  With  them 
unsatisfied  curiosity  was  closely  akin  to  suspicion. 

A  vague  notion  existed  in  Sutton  that  Mr.  Burt 
had  at  one  time  been  a  minister.  He  habitually 
dressed  in  black.  His  clothes,  though  dull  and 
threadbare,  were  carefully  brushed,  but  his  trousers 
were  grotesquely  short.  This,  even  with  the  more 
serious-minded,  could  not  fail  to  detract  from  the 
veneration  due  to  the  dignity  of  his  face ;  unless, 
of  course,  they  knew  his  doctrine  sound,  in  which 
case  a  short  trouser-leg  might  easily  add  a  spiritual 


8  "  Love  and  Quiet  Life  " 

grace.  He  wore  a  soft  felt  hat  and  a  white 
necktie. 

"  An  'eet,"  as  Mrs.  Culliford,  the  farmer's  wife 
who  lived  at  the  old  Manor  House,  said  to  Mrs. 
Carew,  the  sharp-featured  elderly  little  widow  who 
lived  "  down  street,"  "  If  he's  a  minister,  why  do 
the  man  never  testify  ?  If  he  were  ever  a  pastor, 
where  did  he  leave  his  vlock  ?  " 

The  meeting-house  at  Upton,  a  mile  over  the 
hill,  was  irregularly  supplied  with  preachers  from 
neighbouring  towns,  and  thither  Sutton  folk  often- 
times repaired  of  a  Sunday  evening  in  the  sum- 
mer. Mr.  Burt  himself  occasionally  attended 
divine  worship  in  that  place.  Whether  regarded 
therefore  as  a  question  or  an  argument,  Mrs.  Culli- 
ford's  words  were  cogent  and  unanswerable. 

Mrs.  Culliford  had  walked  down  that  evening  to 
tea  with  Mrs.  Carew,  and  they  were  sitting  at  the 
downstair  window,  looking  out  upon  the  street. 

"  Bless  my  heart  alive  !  "  cried  Mrs.  Culliford. 
"  How  Miss  Burt  have  a-shot  up,  to  be  sure.  Why, 
she's  taller  an'  her  father  by  half  a  head.  An'  't 
wer'  but  the  wick  avore  last,  so  to  speak,  she 
wer'  but  a  little  slip  of  a  maid  not  sweetheart 
high." 

*'  An'  now  she's  a  'ooman.  Sure  she  mus'  put 
on  clean  collar  an'  cuffs  every  other  day." 

"  An'  so  she  mus'.      Sure  there's  a  main  deal 


Sutton  Town  9 

o'  trouble  wi*  the  washen  o'  them-there  broidery 
collars." 

"  Ah  !  An'  the  ironen  so  well,  Mrs.  CulHford. 
Oh  aye !     The  ironen  so  well." 

"  An'  so  'tes." 

"  But  there  she've  a-got  all  her  time  for  certain. 
Her  father  mus'  ha'  property,  for  sure.  Sim  to  I 
they  mus'  be  quality  volk  a-comed  down. 
Critchell  the  butcher  o'  Bridgetown  do  call  twice 
a  wick,  Mondays  an'  Thursdays,  an'  nothen  ever 
booked,  but  the  money  a-brought  out  to  door  so 
reg'lar  as  the  sun.  We  can  zee  all  do  pass  vrom 
little  dairy-house  winder,  but  never  a  stranger  in 
or  out,  leastways  if  so  'tes  unbeknown  to  me — an' 
I  do  rather  think  I  should  zee,  too." 

"  To  be  sure  you  would.  Now  that's  the  worst 
I  do  like  about  being  perked  up  there  to  Manor 
House.  The  grass  do  come  early  I  don't  deny, 
an'  we  be  out  o'  the  way  o'  the  floods.  But  there's 
noo  look  out.  You  mid  live  from  year's-end  to 
year's-end,  an'  never  zee  a  soul  but  what  do  come 
to  the  house.  An'  if  you  do  hear  wheels  in  the 
road,  'tes  a-gone  like  a  flash,  afore  you  can  get 
out  in  time  to  see  what  'tes." 

"  But  what  I  say  is  this,"  reflected  Mrs.  Carew, 
weighing  the  probability  of  Mr.  Burt's  gentility 
with  grave  deliberation.  "  Gentry  do  know  gentry. 
I  hope  your  tea's  to  your  liking,  Mrs.  CulHford." 


lo  "Love  and  Quiet  Life" 

"  Terr'ble  good,  thank  ee." 

"They  do  git  their  tea  to  Bridgetown  too,  in 
half-poun'  packets  six-and-six  the  poun',  an' 
nothen  less.  I  do  know  that,  for  the  young  man, 
the  out-ride,  told  me  so  out  of  his  own  mouth. 
But  then  to  be  sure  it  can't  be  much,  for  they  be 
but  two,  an'  that  do  make  all  the  difference." 

"  An'  so  do,"  assented  Mrs.  Culliford,  nodding 
cordial  corroboration. 

In  this  condition  of  isolation  Marion  Burt  grew 
into  womanhood  without  associates  of  her  own 
age,  and  with  no  friend  but  her  father.  During 
her  childhood  there  had  been  a  housekeeper  at 
the  cottage,  an  ancient  dame,  who  taught  her 
the  use  of  the  needle  and  the  mysteries  of  house- 
keeping, but  of  late  no  other  inmate  but  Tamsin. 
Her  father  had  educated  her,  not  only  with  patient 
care,  but,  finding  her  apt,  with  the  enthusiasm  of 
a  scholar ;  and  under  his  guidance  learning 
became  a  delight.  She  mastered  Latin  and  knew 
some  Greek.  She  was  familiar  with  the  heroes 
of  antiquity,  and  Julius  Caesar  crossing  the 
Rubicon  was  to  her  a  more  living  reality  than 
jolly  farmer  John  Culliford  jogging  homewards 
on  his  old  mare  from  Bridgetown  market  across 
the  moor.  Nor  were  the  daily  walks  so  monoto- 
nous as  they  appeared  to  the  lively  imaginations 
of  Mrs.  Culliford  and   Mrs.  Carew.     Upon  one  of 


Sutton  Town  ii 

the  shelves  of  her  father's  library  Marlon  had 
found  White's  "  Natural  History  of  Selborne,"  and 
learned  from  it  the  delight  of  a  close  observa- 
tion of  nature.  They  listened  to  the  chiff-chaff 
in  the  spring.  They  noted  the  coming  and  going 
of  the  martins  in  the  sandy  hollow  ;  and  waited 
expectant  for  the  cuckoo's  call.  They  drank  in 
every  sight,  from  the  silvering  of  the  thorn  to 
the  gilding  of  the  maple  ;  and  every  sound,  from 
the  first  note  of  the  thrush  to  the  solitary  song 
of  the  robin  in  the  winter  tree. 

Thus  to  the  occasional  observer  they  appeared 
to  loiter  aimlessly  and  look  at  nothing,  and  Mrs. 
Culliford  said  to  Mrs.  Carevv,  with  the  rich  re- 
dundancy of  negation  which  is  one  of  the  chief 
charms  of  that  neighbourhood,  that  she  never 
didn't  think  they  could'n  ever  be  quite  right. 

Yet  how  beautiful  was  life  to  these  two  simple 
people. 

The  village  little  dreamt  that  sometimes  of  a 
starlight  night  when  all  was  still,  and  every  soul 
in  Sutton  slept  the  sleep  of  the  just,  they  walked 
out  into  the  garden,  or  even  wandered  away  across 
the  moor  to  note  the  planets  and  call  the  constella- 
tions by  their  names.  The  breath  of  night  sighed 
through  the  sedges  and  the  willow  trees.  The  stars 
looked  down  upon  the  still  water  of  the  rhine.  The 
unbounded  arc  of  heaven  bent  over  the  unbroken 


12  "Love  and  Quiet  Life" 

plain.  How  vast  it  was !  how  wonderful !  And 
ever  above  and  behind  the  innumerable  host  was 
hidden  the  eternal  Majesty,  who  governs  them  with 
His  infinite  wisdom.  This  thought  was  always 
present  to  James  Burt.  On  these  occasions  he 
was  wont  to  pour  it  forth  in  reverential  awe  ;  and 
Marion,  listening,  drank  it  into  her  soul.  Thus 
in  isolation,  but  in  that  rarefied  atmosphere  of 
fine  feeling  which  surrounds  the  summit  of  elevated 
thought,  the  girl  grew  up  unconscious  of  the  flesh- 
and-blood  of  human  existence. 

Once  only  had  nature  startled  her  with  a  strange, 
inexplicable  note.  They  were  returning  to  the 
house  from  one  of  these  expeditions,  on  a  night 
in  early  winter.  The  wind  had  risen  ;  clouds  were 
driving  across  the  sky  ;  and  everything  was  hidden 
and  obscured.  She  drew  closer  to  her  father,  for 
the  road  had  become  very  dark.  A  row  of  pollard 
willows  loomed  on  either  side,  and  suddenly  above 
their  heads  came  a  wild  whirring  of  wings,  and  one 
solitary  wailing  cry. 

It  was  not  love — this  longing  of  a  wild-bird 
flying  south — but  the  involuntary  expression  of 
some  unknown  restless  want.  The  yearning  of 
it  echoed  in  her  ears,  the  memory  remained  to 
haunt  her  heart. 


CHAPTER    11 

THE    IVORY    MINIATURE 

Of  their  history  previous  to  settling  in  Sutton, 
Marion  knew  little. 

She  could  dimly  remember  her  father  in  a  black 
gown,  leaning  over  the  pulpit  with  extended  arm. 
And  someone  else — it  must  have  been  her  mother 
— sitting  in  the  corner  of  a  high-backed  pew, 
looking  down  at  the  hassock.  Yet  even  that 
seemed  little  more  than  a  dream.  And  there  was 
present  some  inexplicable  incongruity,  perceived  at 
that  time  by  her  infant  mind  and  still  retained, 
which  made  the  recollection  perplexing  and  unreal. 

To  question  her  father  was  useless.  He  set  the 
matter  aside  in  a  nervous,  hurried  way,  which 
reduced  her  to  silence,  leaving  her  with  a  sense 
of  having  pained  him.  But  with  increasing  years, 
the  desire  to  learn  something  of  the  past  had 
grown  into  a  passion.  Was  she  never  to  know 
anything  of  the  woman  who  bore  her  ?  Never  to 
hear  one  word  of  story,  nor  feel  one  touch  of 
tender  reminiscence  ?  What  was  she  like  ?  Was 
she   short  ?     Was   she   tall  ?     Was  she  beautiful  ? 

13 


14  "Love  and  Quiet  Life" 

The  longing  became  none  the  less  importunate 
because  there  was  none  to  answer  it. 

Beneath  the  roof  was  a  small  attic,  used  as  a 
lumber-room  ;  and  there  one  day,  a  ray  of  sunlight 
came  slanting  through  the  little  window,  pointing 
like  a  finger  to  an  old  deal  box  which  lay  in  the 
corner,  carefully  corded,  but  forgotten  long  ago. 
Never  before  had  Marion  nc.iced  the  inscription 
roughly  pencilled  on  the  lid  :    "  Sermons^  etc." 

At  once  she  felt  a  wish  to  examine  the  contents. 
There  could  be  no  harm  in  that,  and  she  need  not 
bother  her  father.  Without  hesitation  she  knelt 
down  upon  the  floor,  and  with  some  difficulty 
unfastened  the  knots. 

The  box  was  full  of  writings,  neatly  tied  in 
bundles.  Written  in  her  father's  small,  clear  hand 
were  sermons  upon  sermons — some  of  surpassing 
eloquence,  many  of  inordinate  length  ;  but  all 
pencilled  at  the  head  of  the  sheet,  just  above  the 
text,  with  the  dates  of  composition  and  delivery. 
One  after  another  she  took  them  out  with  rapid 
inquisitiveness,  promising  herself  to  read  them 
every  one  at  leisure.  It  would  truly  be  a  delight 
and  recreation  to  her.  But  as  she  replaced  them 
in  the  box,  a  parcel  smaller  than  the  rest  attracted 
her  attention.  It  was  quite  different  to  the  others, 
and  eagerly  opening  it,  she  found  a  number  of 
letters  and  a  small  miniature  portrait  painted  on 


The  Ivory  Miniature  15 

ivory.  With  a  thrill  of  delight  she  rose,  crossed 
the  room,  and  stood  under  the  window,  holding  the 
picture  in  the  clear  light. 

The  head  of  a  young  woman,  with  a  beautiful 
but  almost  childish  face,  with  large  dark  eyes  and  a 
witching,  wayward  mouth.  Her  hair,  black  as  jet, 
was  arranged  in  loose  ringlets  around  her  forehead 
and  on  the  sides  of  her  head.  Perhaps  the  artist 
had  idealized  the  dainty  beauty  of  the  delicate 
mouth  and  chin,  yet  none  could  doubt  that  the 
picture  was  a  likeness,  and  as  Marion  looked,  it 
became  more  and  more  familiar,  until  she  clearly 
recognised  the  mother  she  had  lost  so  long  ago. 

She  stood  gazing  at  it  with  loving  emotion. 
She  knew  it  was  her  mother.  Then  how  pitiable 
that  this  only  relic  she  had  ever  seen  should  lie 
thus  coffined,  neglected  and  forgotten.  It  was  a 
sort  of  sacrilege  to  leave  it  like  a  worthless  thing, 
hidden  away  and  unheeded.  And  yet  the  tender- 
ness of  her  father's  nature  forbade  her  to  accuse 
him  of  coldness  or  want  of  affection.  Doubtless 
his  very  sensibility  led  him  thus  to  lay  aside 
everything  which  might  awaken  sad  memories,  just 
as  it  prevented  any  reference  to  the  love  which  he 
had  lost.     She  could  understand  that. 

With  trembling  fingers  she  untied  the  bundle  of 
letters,  all  so  fair  writ  in  the  style  of  faultless 
symmetry  of  the  days  when  penmanship  was  an 


1 6  "Love  and  Quiet  Life" 

art.  They  were  written  before  marriage,  five-and- 
twenty  years  ago,  and  the  ink  was  faded,  having 
long  outlived  the  tale  of  love  it  told.  Marian  felt 
no  hesitation  in  reading.  It  was  all  so  remote  that 
to  do  so  seemed  more  like  an  inquiry  into  history 
than  a  peeping  behind  the  privacy  of  life. 

But  as  she  read  her  heart  beat  fast,  and  her 
cheek  flushed. 

The  words  were  wild,  and  without  self-restraint 
in  their  extravagant  expression  of  passionate  and 
romantic  love.  Yet  they  had  been  very  real  to  the 
writer,  and  now  they  were  very  real  to  her  who 
read.  There  were  difflculties — a  hint  of  something 
clandestine  in  the  correspondence,  followed  by 
avowals  of  unalterable  fidelity  and  undying  love. 
It  was  afternoon  in  early  spring,  and  Marion  had 
just  returned  from  her  usual  walk  when  she  began 
to  read  ;  but  she  continued  until  dusk,  drawing 
closer  to  the  window  as  the  writing  faded  into 
illegibility.  She  had  time  to  learn  the  whole  love 
story.  Even  to  the  withdrawal  of  opposition,  and 
the  reference  to  future  marriage  with  which  the 
unintentional  record  suddenly  closed. 

The  last  reflected  glow  of  sunset  had  tinged  the 
darkening  clouds  with  blood.  From  the  topmost 
twig  of  an  elm  tree  on  the  hill-side  a  thrush  was 
pouring  forth  his  last  song,  startling  the  soft  air 
with  interjected  phrases  bursting  from  his  throb- 


The  Ivory  Miniature  17 

bing  throat.  The  girl  could  read  no  longer,  but 
she  still  remained  holding  the  letters  in  her  hand. 
She  had  drunk  the  love  potion.  It  quickened  her 
heart  and  made  her  head  swim,  like  wine  with  one 
who  has  never  before  tasted  it.  Yet  how  could  she, 
as  yet  untouched  by  passion,  sound  the  depth  of 
this  turbulent  emotion  into  which  she  looked  ?  In 
the  sweet  atmosphere  of  youth  and  spring,  she  saw 
only  the  beauty,  but  never  questioned  the  unalter- 
able quality  of  Love.  And  thus  she  understood 
the  happiness  her  father  once  possessed — and  lost. 

"  Marion  ! " 

His  voice  recalled  her.  She  quickly  re-tied  the 
letters,  to  return  them  to  the  box.  They  were 
mostly  signed  "  Marion,"  but  one  in  full,  "  Marion 
Holbyn,"  and  thus  she  learned  at  last  her  mother's 
maiden  name. 

But  she  did  not  replace  the  portrait  She 
pressed  it  to  her  lips,  kissing  it  again  and  again  in 
an  ecstasy  of  delight.  It  was  as  if  a  great  vacancy 
had  been  filled,  a  long-felt  want  supplied.  She 
could  now  picture  the  mother  of  whom  hitherto  she 
had  only  vaguely  dreamed  ;  and  the  beauty  of  the 
face  was  a  source  of  exultation  and  delight.  She 
quickly  unbuttoned  her  dress,  and  hid  upon  her 
bosom  the  tiny  oval  likeness  in  its  smooth,  black 
frame.  Then  she  ran  downstairs  in  response  to 
her  father's  call. 

2 


1 8  "Love  and  Quiet  Life" 

For  several  days  Marion  thus  carried  her  new- 
found treasure,  but  as  the  first  excitement  wore 
away,  she  began  to  suffer  misgivings,  and  to  doubt 
whether  she  ought  thus  to  appropriate  that  which 
had  been  so  carefully  hidden  from  sight.  The 
spirit  of  gentleness  and  simple  candour  marking  all 
her  father's  actions  rendered  it  impossible  to 
practise  deceit  upon  him.  She  felt  assured  he 
would  not  deny  to  her  this  relic,  which  sorrow  alone 
could  have  driven  him  to  remove  from  sight.  More 
than  this,  she  longed  to  know  it  an  absolute  posses- 
sion ;  and  yet  she  hesitated  to  speak.  At  last  this 
desire  overcame  her  fear,  and  one  morning  she 
summoned  courage  to  enter  his  study. 

It  was  a  small  room  looking  out  upon  the  moor. 
The  walls  were  hidden  with  books.  The  chairs 
were  old-fashioned,  of  rosewood  with  horsehair 
seats,  and  ornamented  with  brass-headed  nails.  In 
a  corner  stood  a  celestial  globe,  by  aid  of  which 
they  sometimes  worked  out  problems  as  an  intel- 
lectual recreation.  Busily  writing  at  a  table 
covered  with  manuscripts,  it  was  easy  to  believe 
him  engaged  on  some  interminable  book.  As  she 
entered,  he  glanced  up,  but  continued  his  work. 

Presently  he  laid  aside  his  pen,  and  asked  with 
his  habitual  tranquility  and  sweetness — 

"  Do  you  want  any  help,  Marion  ?  " 

"  No,  dear  Father.      It  was  not  that.      But  the 


The  Ivory  Miniature  19 

other  day  I  found  this.  May  I  keep  it  ?  "  And 
she  held  the  miniature  towards  him. 

He  became  so  agitated  that  his  h*p  quivered,  and 
for  a  moment  he  could  not  speak.  Then,  with  an 
effort  he  subdued  his  emotion,  and  answered  : — 

"  Yes.     Keep  it." 

"  It  is  my  mother  ?  " 

He  sighed,  rose  from  the  table,  and  crossed  to 
the  window  looking  out  upon  the  moor.  She  could 
not  see  his  face,  only  his  figure  dark  against  the 
glass.  He  seemed  to  tremble,  and  she  thought  he 
was  in  tears. 

"  Yes.     Your  mother." 

Her  heart  melted  with  pity  for  his  bereavement. 
She  had  touched  his  sorrow ;  re-opened  the 
wound  ;  and  she  suffered  an  agony  of  self-reproach. 
Yet  the  question  was  so  importunate,  she  could  not 
help  asking  it. 

"One  word  more.  Father!  How  old  was  I  when 
my  mother  died  ?  " 

He  raised  his  hand  to  his  forehead  as  if  to  con- 
centrate his  thoughts  and  fix  his  attention  on  the 
distant  past.  For  a  full  minute  there  was  silence. 
Then  he  answered  quite  calmly,  as  if  he  had  only 
waited  to  consider. 

"  She  was  taken  from  me — when  you  were  three 
years  of  age." 


CHAPTER  III 

TRANTER    COOMBS 

That  summer  was  the  "most  catchingest"  ever 
experienced  in  the  memory  of  man.  It  had  been 
"  terr'ble  teasen  for  the  haymaken  "  ;  but  Mr.  John 
Culliford,  of  the  Manor  Farm  at  Sutton,  had  come 
almost  to  the  last  load.  Seated  on  his  white  cob 
he  encouraged  the  workers.  The  great  yellow 
wagon  slowly  proceeded  between  the  "weales," 
as  they  used  to  call  the  long  ridges  of  fresh-made 
hay,  whilst  the  pitchers  lifted  and  the  loaders 
spread  the  sweet- smelling  crop.  The  women-folk 
in  cotton  frocks  and  sun-bonnets  were  busy  with 
rakes.  The  group  stood  out  in  bold  relief  against 
a  background  of  elm  trees  ;  but  the  rick  was  in 
a  distant  field,  and  the  white  gate  stood  open  in 
the  hedgerow. 

In  a  corner  of  the  field  children  had  come  to 
play,  and  Johnny  Sandboy  was  running  after 
Mary  Eliza  Clarke.  He  caught  her,  smothered 
her  in  hay,  and  the  child  screamed.  Then  one  of 
the  women  stopped  raking,  turned  round,  and 
called  in  a  shrill  voice : — 

20 


Tranter  Coombs  21 

"  Lef  the  little  maid  alone,  young  huzburd,  or 
I'll  put  the  little  stick  about  your  back." 

Experience  and  a  large  family  had  taught  Mrs. 
Sandboy  that  it  was  never  unwise  to  check  the 
exuberance  of  youth. 

"'Tes  somethen  to  do  wi'  the  childern,"  she 
said,  half  to  herself.  "  'Tes  a'most  time  the  bwoy 
were  to  work." 

"  Zo  'tes,  Missus.  Zo  'tes,"  said  Mr.  John  CulH- 
ford.  Then  he  glanced  at  the  sun  above  the 
little  spinney  on  the  hillside,  turned  his  horse's 
head,  and  rode  slowly  towards  the  house. 

He  dismounted,  threw  the  rein  over  the  barton 
gate-post,  and  stood  at  his  full  height  a  moment, 
stretching  his  limbs.  He  was  tall  enough — five 
feet  eleven  or  so — and  broad  beyond  the  dreams 
of  ambition.  More  than  three  score  years  of  age, 
he  was  still  erect  as  in  youth,  standing  as  straight 
as  one  of  his  own  cider-butts,  which,  although 
possessed  of  a  rich  rotundity,  does  not  in  spirit 
depart  from  the  perpendicular. 

Again  he  glanced  at  the  sun,  his  customary 
clock,  now  rising  above  the  cowl  of  the  tall  kitchen 
chimney.  Then  he  strolled  leisurely  into  the  road 
— a  road  white  and  dusty,  passing  without  hedge- 
rows through  the  open  fields — and  shading  his 
eyes  with  his  hand,  gazed  into  the  distance.  At 
last  he  turned  back  to  the  house,  passed  through 


22  "Love  and  Quiet  Life" 

the  garden,  and  stood  by  the  porch  before  the 
open  door. 

"Missus!  Missus!"  Mr.  John  Culliford's  utter- 
ances often  betrayed  a  latent  excitability  scarcely 
to  be  suspected  from  the  deliberation  of  his 
movements, 

"What  is  it,  John?" 

"  Here's  Tranter  Coombs  have  a-turned  the  top 
of  the  hill." 

There  was  a  deal  of  colour  about  Farmer  John 
Culliford,  standing  there  in  the  shadow  of  the  grey 
old  building.  Little  flat  brass  buttons  glistened 
above  his  blue  hose  at  the  knees  of  his  cord 
breeches,  and  down  one  side  of  his  red  waistcoat, 
wide  open  because  of  the  warm  weather.  For  the 
same  reason  he  wore  no  coat,  and  his  shirt- sleeves 
were  snowy  white.  Around  his  throat  was  a  cotton 
neckcloth  of  a  little  sprig  pattern  tied  in  a  bow, 
and  his  face  was  round  and  rosy,  rosy  from  every 
conceivable  reason — from  the  sun,  from  a  moderate 
consumption  of  cider,  from  shaving  with  a  doubtful 
razor,  and  above  all  from  a  thorough  good  English 
heart  which  thumped  within  his  bosom. 

"  Come,  Missus  !     Come  ! " 

Then  Mrs.  Culliford,  comely  and  comfortable 
as  himself,  came  into  the  porch,  a  brown  cup  in 
one  hand,  a  willow-patterned  plate  with  a  crust  of 
bread  and  cheese  in  the  other. 


Tranter  Coombs  23 


a  »«■ 


'Tes  a  wonderful  sight  o'  grapes  to-year  if  they 
do  but  ripen,"  she  said,  glancing  at  the  vine  which 
covered  one  side  of  the  house, .  between  the  tall 
mullioned  windows.  "  But  the  thunderstorm  have 
a-beat  about  the  flower-knot  shameful." 

And  so  they  contentedly  waddled  down  to  the 
gate  to  await  the  tranter. 

The  old  Manor  House  at  Sutton  stands  remote 
from  the  remainder  of  the  parish.  Even  in  those 
days  it  had  ceased  to  be  a  mansion  for  more  than 
a  century  and  a  half,  and  the  added  farm  buildings 
were  already  in  a  condition  of  respectable  decay. 
There  was  no  large  landed  proprietor  resident  in 
the  village,  and  the  Cullifords  had  been  the  prin- 
cipal inhabitants  time  out  o'  mind.  They  always 
held  land  in  Sutton,  and  had  rented  the  house  for 
many  generations.  Their  cider-butts  filled  the  old 
baronial  hall,  and  they  kept  a  chain-harrow  in  the 
ancient  kitchen.  But  the  little  ivy-covered  chapel 
with  Gothic  windows,  and  ornamented  with  the 
faded  escutcheons  of  a  forgotten  race,  still  remained 
in  good  preservation,  and  had  never  suffered  de- 
secration. It  stood  detached  from  the  farmhouse, 
or  linked  only  by  a  broken  ruined  wall.  And  at 
evening  when  the  sun  was  low,  and  the  slightest 
inequality  of  the  ground  cast  a  shadow  clear  and 
well  defined,  beside  the  road  and  in  the  home-field 
might  be  traced  the  foundations  of  forgotten  homes. 


24  "  Love  and  Quiet  Life  " 

To  the  ordinary  observer  nothing  remained  but 
heaps  and  holes  and  hollows.  But  a  sense  of  soli- 
tude was  always  present  at  the  place,  and  in  winter 
or  on  rainy  days  a  spirit  of  desolation. 

No  !  If  you  are  one  of  these  high-flyers,  re- 
quiring life  and  movement,  to  see  the  butcher's 
cart  twice  a  week,  the  doctor's  gig  in  times  of 
epidemic,  and  to  learn  accurately  where  the  parson 
calls,  you  must  go  to  Sutton-street.  No  one  came 
by  the  Manor  Farm  but  Tranter  Coombs,  and  this 
loneliness  accounted  in  some  measure  for  the  cor- 
diality of  Mr.  Culliford's  greeting. 

"Well,  William  Coombs,  An'  how's  William 
Coombs  to-day  ?  " 

"  Amongst  the  middlens,  Zir.  Amongst  the 
middlens.  An'  how's  Mr.  John  Culliford  to-day? 
My  respects,  Mim." 

The  carrier,  a  sharp-eyed,  active  little  man  in 
high  gaiters  and  a  kittle-smock,  drew  his  van  across 
the  road,  removed  the  bit,  that  his  bony  old  mare, 
in  whom  all  levity  had  long  been  crushed  beneath 
the  constant  load,  might  moisten  her  mouth  with 
the  wayside  grass,  and  then  seated  himself  on  the 
uppinstock  by  the  side  of  the  garden-hatch. 

"  'Tes  warm,"  said  he.  "  My  van's  so  hot  as  a 
oven." 

"  Terr'ble  warm,"  echoed  the  Cullifords. 

"  But  'tes  what's  a-wanted.     Here's  luck." 


Tranter  Coombs  25 

Happy,  happy  days !  when  man  might  drink 
at  ease,  and  conversation  could  not  be  hurried. 

Anything  fresh  to  Bristol-town?  "  ventured  Mrs. 
Culliford. 

"  Aye,  aye  I  There's  a  fine  bobbery  over  to 
Paris  in  France,  Mrs.  Culliford,  Mim.  So  I've 
a-heard  tell,  but  I  ha'n't  a-zeed  it.  Why,  'tes  next 
kin  to  a  miracle,  an'  do  a'most  cap  Jericho,  if  'tes 
true.  You  never  didden  hear  no  sich  work  in  all 
your  born  days,  nor  Measter  nother.  Why,  the 
poppleation,  wi'  nothen  but  a  han'-vull  o'  stones 
apiece,  have  a-beat  back  the  French  army,  an' 
carr'ed  the  corpses  all  roun'  town,  for  all  the  world 
like  mommets  of  a  Guy  Fawkes'  day,  an'  then  put 
'em  up  in  stacks  athurt  the  street  to  stop  the  traffic. 
An'  zoo  by  sich  means  they've  a-tookt  the  Royal 
Palace,  an'  now  they  do  think  to  gie  the  king  the 
zack." 

"Oh?"  complacently  grunted  Mr.  John  Culli- 
ford, for  the  doings  of  an  inferior  people  in  an  in- 
ferior place  did  not  interest  him  deeply. 

"  Measter  don't  worrit  his  head  about  foreigners. 
Tidden  wo'th  while,"  explained  Mrs.  Culliford. 

"  Aye !  Things  be  in  a  terr'ble  bad  state ;  an' 
'tes  all  in  the  almanac  a  put  out  so  true  as  the 
light,"  ran  on  this  merry  little  pessimist.  "  Why, 
they  do  zay  there's  a  new  complaint  a-comen  these 
way.     Do  catch  ee  in  the  stomick  like,  an'  afore 


26  "  Love  and  Quiet  Life  " 

you've  a-got  time  to  look  roun*  or  make  your  will 
your  inzides  be  a-tied  up  in  knots.  But  'tes  all  a 
judgment,  Mr.  Culliford,  Zir,  'tes  all  a  judgment 
you  might  depend.  Life's  all  such  a  hurry-push 
these  times.  Tidden  so  steady-wholesome  as  't 
were  years  agone  by.  *Tes  all  along  o'  this  here 
new-fangled  machinery " 

"  Measter  don't  employ  no  machinery  to  the 
present  time,"  interposed  Mrs.  Culliford. 

" an'  them-there  new  railroads  they  do  talk 

about.  Aye,  aye !  When  God-A'mighty  made 
this  wordle,  He  never  thought  o'  it  all,  Mr.  John 
Culliford,  Zir.  He  never  meant  it,  Zir.  Why,  if 
God-A'mighty  had  allotted  man  to  truckle  on 
'pon  rails,  He  wouldn'  never  a-made  ho'ses  wi' 
vour  lags.  He  wouldn'  a-zend  tranters.  Tidden 
natural,  Mr.  Culliford,  Zir,  an'  do  turn  the  wordle 
topsy-turvy,  an'  breed  a  lot  o'  discontent  wi' 
thoughtful  folk." 

The  tranter  raised  his  billycock  hat,  and  thought- 
fully passed  his  fingers  through  his  wiry  grey  hair. 

"  Measter  don't  think  them-there  railroads  '11  ever 
answer — not  for  long,"  explained  Mrs.  Culliford. 

"  'T'ull  be  the  ruination  o'  tranteren  if  they 
should.  But  there,  they  never  won't.  There'll  be 
a  revolution  first,  so  safe  as  a  gun." 

"  Measter  don't  want  no  revolutions  here," 
piped  Mrs.  Culliford. 


Tranter  Coombs  27 

"Well,  Mim,"  continued  the  tranter,  instructively. 
"  'Tes  all  along  o'  these  here  agitators,  you  zee,  do 
come  from  up  the  country  zomewhere  wi'  a  won- 
derful preachment  'bout  reform  an'  disturbution  o' 
property  an'  all  that.  If  a  man  got  a  ho'se  an' 
cart,  they  do  want  two  lags  an'  a  wheel  o'  un, 
sim-zo.  Why  they've  a-had  a  meeting  a-top  o' 
Bridgeton  Common,  an'  Urch  Vry  took  the  chair 
'pon  a  gate-post  for  to  keep  order  like,  an'  a 
terr'ble  bunchy  little  feller,  not  one  o'  these  parts, 
hopped  up  'pon  top  o'  stone  wall,  an'  massy  'pon 
us !  how  he  did  wag  his  tongue  to  be  sure.  An' 
he  werden  but  a  little  feller  another  ;  but  lauk  !  he'd 
talk  a  horse's  head  off  Dall  his  buttons  !  Why, 
he'd  talk  a  hive  o'  bees  to  death.  Aye,  aye  !  The 
country's  all  to  a  upstore — but  I've  a-got  a  bit  of  a 
bill  here." 

The  tranter  put  down  the  cup  on  the  uppinstock, 
hurried  across  to  the  van,  and  returned  with  a 
small  handbill,  which  he  handed  to  Mr.  Culliford. 

"'Tes  a-thought  'tes  Cap'n  Swing  hiszelf.  But 
you  keep  the  paper,  Zir.  'Tes  hard  upon  noon. 
I  must  get  on.  Thank  ee  kindly,  Mim.  Good 
marnen,  Mr.Culliford,  Zir.     Good  marnen,  Mim." 

"  Mr.  Coombs.  Mr.  Coombs.  One  minute. 
You  ha'n't  a-heard  anywhere  of  a  new  pa'son  for 
Zutton.     Have  ee  ?  " 

The  tranter  paused  with  his  hand  on  the  rein, 


28  "  Love  and  Quiet  Life  " 

and  thought  deeply  for  at  least  a  minute  and  a 
half.  "  1  can't  call  to  mind  that  I  have,"  he  replied, 
slowly.  Then  he  clambered  into  the  van,  and  the 
old  mare  went  jogging  along  the  dusty  road.  Pre- 
sently he  reached  the  entrance  to  the  Manor  Farm, 
and  turned  into  the  highway  through  Sutton,  He 
passed  the  empty  parsonage,  the  little  church  with 
its  squat  tower,  and  pulled  up  before  the  White 
Hart.  Then  the  parish  gradually  collected  around 
Tranter  Coombs.  He  became  the  centre  of  the 
admiring  multitude  of  Sutton.  There  was  John 
Sandboy,  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  and  Josiah 
Clarke,  with  his  smock  rolled  up  around  his  waist, 
and  Abraham  Bartlett,  the  parish  clerk.  Even  the 
children  came  round  to  listen  to  the  tranter's  won- 
derful harangue,  which  lasted  full  an  hour  by  the 
clock  in  Sutton  Tower.  Then  he  said  he  must  be 
going.  But  he  gave  the  men  a  bill  apiece,  thus 
leaving  serious  occupation  for  the  wit  of  Sutton. 

He  stopped  by  the  causeway  because  there  was 
a  parcel  for  Mrs.  Carew.  He  pulled  rein  before 
the  cottage  with  the  stickle  roof,  to  shout  friendly 
inquiries  to  Gramfer  Sandboy,  sitting  in  his  arm- 
chair out  of  doors  in  the  sunshine.  Then  he  turned 
the  corner  by  the  square  white  house,  and  jogged 
away  across  the  moor. 


CHAPTER   IV 

A  DETERMINED   FELLOW 

They  stood  with  folded  arms,  without  moving  from 
the  Manor  Farm  gate,  and  watched  the  tranter  out 
of  sight. 

"  So  I  suppose  there's  nothing  settled  yet,"  said 
Mrs.  Culliford,  thinking  of  the  new  parson,  as  she 
turned  to  look  over  her  husband's  arm  at  the  hand- 
bill which  he  at  last  began  slowly  to  read  aloud. 

KEEP  A    SHARP   LOOK-OUT. 

"  It  is  believed  that  the  fires  in  the  neighbotirhood 
of  Pewsey,  Wilts,  have  been  caused  by  a  man  seen 
near  the  spot,  either  before  or  immediately  after  their 
breaking  out,  attd  who  is  supposed  to  have  gone  west- 
ward, making  inquiries  of  shepherds  and  labourers 
respecting  the  situatio7t  of  farms  and  circumstances 
relating  to  them.  He  is  about  forty  years  of  age, 
riding  a  long-legged,  light-carcassed,  sorrel-coloured 
blood-horse  with  a  switch  tail  He  is  believed  to 
assume  various  disguises,  but  is  generally  seen  riding 
fast  through  villages  and  toivns  with  something 
different  from  a  coinmon  riding-stick,  with  which  he 

89 


30  "Love  and  Quiet  Life" 

is  constmitly  striking  the  horse's  off  shoulder.  It  is 
suspected  that  tite  thing  thus  carried  is  some  unlaivful 
weapon  or  engine!' 

Mrs.  Culliford  shuddered.  The  description  of 
the  horse  was  so  minute,  whilst  the  man  was  left  so 
largely  to  the  imagination. 

"  'Tes  all  very  well  now  in  summer,"  she  said. 
"  But  I  do  dread  the  long  winter  nights." 

"  They'll  never  come  to  Zutton.  You  mid  rest 
your  heart  content,"  replied  Farmer  Culliford,  sniff- 
ing the  air.  "  How  sweet  the  mignonette  do  smell." 
So  they  passed  up  the  garden  path,  returning,  she  to 
the  house,  and  he  to  the  hurry-push  of  practical  life. 

He  did  not  take  the  cob,  the  boy  had  led  it  to 
the  stable ;  but  he  walked  across  the  paddock  and 
through  the  orchard  to  the  hay-field.  A  pick  had 
been  left  stuck  into  the  ground,  and  in  passing  he 
took  it  to  use  as  a  walking-stick.  Then  something 
happened  which,  whilst  it  awakened  his  curiosity, 
aroused  his  displeasure.  Mrs.  Sandboy  stopped 
work  and  walked  to  the  hedgerow.  The  other 
woman  raking  behind  the  wagon  soon  followed. 
They  called  to  the  pitchers,  and  these  strolled  over 
to  the  shade  of  the  elm-trees.  The  loaders  leaned 
on  their  picks,  shaded  their  eyes  from  the  sunlight, 
and  watched. 

Mr.  John  Culliford's  countenance  assumed  a 
deeper  hue,  he  quickened  his  pace,  and,  as  bodies 


A  Determined  Fellow  31 

in  rapid  motion  readily  catch  the  eye,  was  at  once 
observed  by  the  delinquent  haymakers. 

"  Heigh  !  you  lazy  chaps  there  !  ", 

The  work-folk  hurried  back  to  the  wagon. 
Only  Mrs.  Sandboy  loitered  a  moment  longer, 
shouting  to  a  stranger  in  the  lane  on  the  other  side 
of  the  hedge,  and  pointing  with  her  bare  arm 
towards  the  village. 

"  What's  all  this,  then  ?     What's  this  ?  " 

"  Tis  some  foreigner,  Zir."  In  Sutton  an  un- 
known person  was  always  a  foreigner.  "  He  do  ax 
a  sight  o'  questions,  I  sim.  He  wanted  to  know 
terr'ble  about  the  wold  Manor  House.  An'  how 
many  farms  in  parish.  An'  if  the  lane  do  lead  out 
by  the  church.     An'  I  told  un  iss " 

"  A  horseback  ?  "  inquired  Mr.  Culliford,  quickly. 

"  Aye,  long-lagged  ho'se,  like  a  rail." 

Scarcely  were  the  words  uttered  when  the 
stranger,  picking  his  way  down  the  hill-side,  slowy 
passed  the  open  gate.  Through  this  gap  in  the 
tall  hedgerow,  Mr.  Culliford  unmistakably  distin- 
guished a  sorrel-coloured  nag.  The  rider  appeared 
to  carry  in  his  hand  a  short  staff,  and  tapped  en- 
couragement upon  the  horse's  off  shoulder.  For  a 
moment  Mr.  Culliford  stood  spellbound  ;  then  he 
followed  without  another  word. 

Across  the  field  was  a  footpath  to  the  village. 
Taking  this  short  cut,  Mr.   Culliford   crossed  the 


32  "  Love  and  Quiet  Life  " 

lane,  strode  through  the  narrow  passage  between 
the  church  and  the  parsonage,  and  reached  the 
White  Hart  as  the  stranger  was  riding  into  the 
inn-yard.  At  a  glance  all  his  worst  suspicions  were 
confirmed. 

All  the  village  worthies,  Josiah  Clarke,  Abraham 
Bartlett,  and  John  Sandboy  were  still  there, 
scarcely  recovered  from  the  departure  of  the  tranter. 
Guests  were  rare,  except  in  the  evenings  or  of  a 
wet  day,  and  the  inn-keeper  was  in  the  field.  But 
John  Sandboy,  a  giant  in  a  fustian  coat,  with  a 
talent  for  performing  little  odd  services,  volunteered 
to  lead  the  horse  to  the  stable. 

Josiah  Clarke  and  Abraham  Bartlett,  simple 
souls,  looked  on  with  the  deepest  interest,  but  with- 
out one  thought  of  harm. 

"  Well,  Mr.  John  Culliford.  An'  how's  Mr.  John 
CulHford  to-day  ?  " 

"  There's  nothen  wrong,  I  hope  ? "  questioned 
Abraham,  for  the  farmer's  mien  was  bellicose,  and 
he  still  carried  the  pick. 

"  Wrong  !  For  God's  sake !  hide  away  thik  bill, 
Josiah,  you've  a-got  in  your  han'.  Stand  round 
quiet  like  an'  take  no  notice.  Did  ee  see  thik 
man  ?  Did  ee  cast  your  eye  over  the  ho'se  as  he 
went  by  ?  'Tes  the  man  in  the  bill,  so  sure  as  the 
devil's  in  hell.  Hush  !  Don't  sim  to  take  no  notice. 
— Aye,  aye  !  shall  carry  the  last  o'  it  afore  dark." 


A  Determined  Fellow  33 

The  stranger  had  returned  as  Mr.  Culliford  thus 
raised  his  voice  from  a  mysterious  whisper.  His 
every  action  was  suspicious.  He  passed  the  little 
group  without  a  word,  and  walked  slowly  up  the 
village.  Unconscious  of  being  observed,  he  stopped 
on  the  causeway  and  looked  at  Josiah's  house.  His 
eye  seemed  to  linger  lovingly  on  the  stacks  in 
Abraham  Bartlett's  mow-barton. 

"  But  the  man's  never  forty,  Mr.  Culliford.  Why, 
'tes  so  much  as  ever  he's  thirty.  An'  yet  you  never 
can't  tell." 

Josiah  was  flaxen-haired,  with  the  mildest  blue 
eyes  in  creation.  His  natural  timidity  led  him 
thus  to  raise  futile  objections,  and  immediately  to 
explain  them  away. 

"  Ha !  He's  a  evil-looking  feller  to  my  mind. 
Let's  goo  an'  look  at  the  ho'se,"  suggested  Mr. 
Culliford. 

John  Sandboy  was  rubbing  down  the  horse.  He 
was  to  give  him  a  handful  of  hay  and  a  mouthful 
of  water,  as  the  gentleman  would  be  only  a  short 
time  in  Sutton,  he  said. 

"  He  idden  so  terr'ble  long-lagged,"  demurred 
Josiah.     "  An'  eet  o'  coose  he  idden  short." 

"  I  should  call  un  long-lagged,  myself,"  said 
Abraham. 

"  An'  he  idden  not  to  zay  light-carcassed. 
Though  to  be  sure  he  ha'n't  a-got  much  of  a  barrel." 

3 


34  "Love  and  Quiet  Life" 

"  Noo  man  living  could  call  un  a  heavy-carcassed 
ho'se,"  argued  Mr.  Culliford. 

"  I  should  have  a-zaid  the  colour  wer'  more  of  a 
chestnut.  Not  but  what  many  'ud  term  un  a  sorrel 
'ithout  doubt.  An'  he  ha'n't  a-got  a  switch-tail. 
But  then  they  mid  a-docked  the  tail  o'  un,  for  cer- 
tain.    I  think  'tes  the  ho'se." 

"  So  sure  as  my  name's  John  Culliford,  that's 
the  ho'se." 

Silence  fell  upon  these  three  wise  men  of  Sutton, 
as  this  conviction  with  its  heavy  weight  of  responsi- 
bility was  forced  upon  them. 

"He  axed  a  main  lot  o'  questions,"  said  John 
Sandboy.  "Whether  there  wer'  ever  a  fuss  in 
parish  about  the  tithes.  An'  whether  there  wer'  a 
bobbery  about  the  machinery." 

"  A  galHs-rogue  ! "  ejaculated  Abraham  Bartlett, 
the  parish  clerk,  a  bunchy  little  man  with  a  round 
face,  a  rich  bass  voice,  and  a  very  determined 
character. 

"  But  we  daren't  lay  a  han'  upon  the  man,"  said 
Josiah  nervously. 

"  Then  let  John  Sandboy  run  for  the  life  o'  un 
over  the  hill  to  Upton  for  Constable  Moggridge, — 
'tes  but  little  better  'an  a  mile, — an'  ask  the  con- 
stable to  ride  over  to  once.  Run,  John.  Best  voot 
avore.  An'  we'll  keep  a  eye  'pon  the  rascal  the 
while.     Constable  can  put  un  a  few  questions,  I'll 


A  Determined  Fellow  35 

warrant  un.  If  he  do  only  come  in  time,"  cried 
Mr.  Culliford. 

This  messenger  despatched,  they,  returned  to  the 
village  street  to  look  about  them.  Little  Jack 
Sandboy,  in  his  smock,  was  playing  hick-stone  on 
the  flags  before  the  lich-gate.  The  stranger  was 
staring  at  the  parsonage.  Then  he  sauntered  up 
and  spoke  to  the  boy ;  and  presently  Johnny's 
little  hob-nailed  boots  came  rattling  along  the 
causeway. 

"Where't  gwaine?"  cried  the  clerk. 

"  Up  to  house  vor  the  chitch-kay." 

"  Ah  !  A  cunnen  fox.  He  do  want  to  make 
believe  to  look  at  the  chitch.  There,  't'ull  take  up 
his  time.     That's  one  thing," 

They  watched  the  stranger  enter  by  the  west 
door,  and  waited  long  for  his  reappearance,  but  in 
vain.  Then  Josiah,  with  a  sigh,  happening  to  lift 
his  blue  eye  to  heaven  upon  a  thought  of  his  hay, 
caught  sight  of  a  dark  figure  leaning  against  a 
battlement  of  the  tower. 

"  Dash  my  wig!"  cried  Mr.  John  Culliford.  "  If 
the  double-faced  rascal  ha'n't  a-gone  up  there  to 
look  around.  He  can  zee  every  stack  in  parish 
from  chitch-tower.  Run  down,  Abraham,  an'  lock 
the  chitch-door.  Then  we  shall  have  un  so  tight 
as  wax.  You  thought  he'd  a- went  away  an'  lef 
the   kay    in   door.     Zo   you    locked   the   door  an' 


36  "Love  and  Ouikt  Life" 

brought  on  the  kay.  Goo  on,  Abraham — make 
haste.     Avore  he  do  come  down." 

The  scheme  recommended  itself  to  Abraham, 
from  every  point  of  view.  It  was  easy,  subtle,  and 
effective,  and  lay  well  within  his  province  as  custo- 
dian of  the  key. 

"  To  do  the  thing  proper  we  ought  to  keep  out 
o'  sight,"  suggested  Josiah.  "  Else  he'll  holla  to  us 
from  top  o'  tower." 

"  I  tell  ee  what,"  chimed  in  Mr.  Culliford. 
"  When  Abraham  have  a- turned  the  kay  an'  put 
un  in  his  pocket,  let  un  zit  down  in  porch.  Then 
we'll  get  a  crust  o'  bread  an'  cheese  an'  a  cup  o' 
cider,  an'  while  the  feller's  a-creepen  down  tower- 
stairs  we'll  nip  in  an'  zit  down  so  quiet  as  mice. 
Then  we  shall  hear  all  an'  zee  when  Constable  do 
ride  up  street." 

This  admirable  plan  was  successfully  carried  out 
in  every  detail.  Mr.  Culliford  with  Josiah  carrying 
the  cup  in  both  hands  with  tender  care,  joined 
Abraham  in  the  porch,  and  the  three  sat  in  a  row 
on  the  stone  seat  underneath  the  churchwarden's 
notices.  They  listened  to  the  prisoner  groping  his 
way  down  the  tower  steps.  They  winked  when  he 
tried  the  porch  door,  and  ran  into  danger  of  apop- 
lexy from  suppressed  laughter  to  hear  him  ejacu- 
late his  disgust.  Then  he  walked  rapidly  round 
the  church. 


A  Determined  Fellow  37 

*'  I  reckon  he'll  bom  the  bell,"  whispered  Josiah 

Then  everything  became  as  silent  as  the  grave. 

"  Ah,  sly-minded  rogue.  He's  afeard  to  bom 
the  bell,"  whispered  Mr.  Culliford. 

"  Hush  !  "   said  Abraham. 

They  sat  for  full  three  hours  ;  but  still  the  con- 
stable did  not  come.  Perhaps,  having  begun  har- 
vest, he  could  spare  no  time  to  attend  to  the  king's 
peace.  And  Josiah  ought  to  have  gone  a-milking, 
too  ;  and  Abraham  was  not  sure  but  what  the 
dealer  might  have  come  about  them  pigs.  When 
the  sun  went  dropping  behind  the  old  thatched 
roofs  of  Sutton,  and  the  shadows  from  the  grave- 
stones stretched  away  to  the  churchyard  wall,  Mr. 
Culliford  began  to  show  symptoms  of  uneasiness. 
He  doubted  whether  they  dared  imprison  a  man  in 
this  way.  You  can  no  more  by  law  confine  a  man 
interminably  in  a  church  than  you  can  sit  by 
nature  indefinitely  in  a  porch.  The  very  silence 
became  ominous. 

"  I  wish  to  goodness  he  would  bom  the  bell,"  he 
whispered  earnestly. 

"  Ay  !  An'  then  we  could  ope'  the  door  so  inno- 
cent as  babes,"  sighed  Josiah. 

"  I'll  walk  roun'  an'  shut  up  the  winders  to  keep 
out  the  bats,"  suggested  Abraham.  "  You  bide 
where  you  be." 

Abraham  entered  the  church  and  solemnly  re- 


38  *'  Love  and  Quiet  LiI'E  " 

arranged  the  windows.  Those  that  were  open  he 
shut  to  keep  out  bats  ;  those  that  were  shut  he 
opened  to  let  in  air.  But  nowhere  did  he  find 
trace  of  the  prisoner.  He  looked  everywhere,  from 
the  font  to  the  pulpit,  and  peered  over  the  high- 
backed  oaken  pews  without  success.  He  called 
his  companions,  and  they  also  searched  in  vain. 
They  toiled  up  the  tower.  They  explored  the 
gallery  and  looked  under  the  seats.  But  they  found 
only  a  map  of  the  parish  traced  on  transparent 
paper  and  rolled  around  a  rod.  On  the  back  were 
notes  of  glebe  and  farms,  with  the  proportion  of 
arable  and  pasture  in  each,  roughl}'  pencilled.  It 
had  been  laid  down  on  Mr.  Culliford's  seat  in  the 
chancel. 

"  Ah !  They  got  their  eye  'pon  Zutton,  you 
zee,"  sighed  Josiah,  with  the  guilty  knowledge  on 
his  conscience  of  having  thought  of  a  new  thrashing 
machine. 

The  three  worthies  reassembled  and  held  a  sort 
of  parish  vestry  in  the  porch. 

"  He  can't  a-vell  asleep  surely,"  said  Abraham, 
whose  official  experience  had  rendered  him  conver- 
sant with  the  soporific  virtues  of  the  church. 

"  Goo  an'  catch  a  weasel  asleep,"  replied  Mr. 
Culliford. 

"  He  ca'n't  a-hid  hizself  away  till  night,  to  let 
hizself  down  over  tower  wi'  bell  ropes,"  suggested 


A  Determined  Fellow  39 

Josiah,  but  tentatively  and  without  desire  to  force 
his  opinion  in  the  face  of  unwilling  acceptance. 

"  I  vote  we  do  lock  un  in  again,"  proposed  Mr. 
Culliford.  "  We  be  all  witness  there's  nobody  here. 
An'  he  ca'n't  goo  'ithout  his  ho'se.  Let's  goo  over 
to  White  Hart,  an'  turn  a  kay  'pon  the  ho'se." 

The  idea  was  good.  They  strolled  solemnly  back 
to  the  inn.  But  the  horse  had  been  gone  for  hours. 
In  the  sanded  parlour,  John  Sandboy  was  taking 
his  well-earned  ease,  with  a  cup  and  a  long  clay 
pipe.  The  constable  had  been  busy  killing  a  pig, 
and  did  not  dare  to  lay  hands  on  any  man  without 
a  warrant ;  so  John  had  run  home  full-pelt  across 
the  fields,  and  come  against  the  stranger  full-butt 
in  the  White  Hart  yard.  The  man  gave  him  a 
shilling,  and  rode  away  at  a  walk. 

Look  at  it  how  you  would,  it  was  a  terrible  funny 
thing ;  and  the  more  Mr.  Culliford  thought  the 
deeper  did  the  mystery  become.  And  not  until 
Sunday  week  did  Abraham  Bartlett  discover  that 
the  little  chancel  door  had  been  forced  open.  Some 
one  had  drawn  the  staple  with  the  iron  stem  of  the 
clerk's  candlestick. 

"  An'  thik  door  hadn't  a-bin  oped  this  vive- 
an'-twenty  year,"  reflected  Abraham. 

"  Ha !  A  determined  feller,"  said  Mr.  John 
Culliford. 


CHAPTER  V 

ALL    HURRY-PUSH 

Although  Sutton  was  certainly  quiet,  so  much 
variety  enlivened  its  simple  life  that  it  was  never 
dull.  Everything  came  around  in  due  season, 
floods,  flowers  and  fruit,  all  fresh  from  Nature's 
hand  ;  and  if  there  were  no  novelties,  neither  was 
there  anything  that  was  not  new.  And  then  the 
depth  of  human  sympathy  in  the  people  !  The 
minute  interest  they  took  in  the  proceedings  and 
good  fortune  of  others  !  When  Mrs.  Clarke  by  the 
rule  of  simple  addition  raised  Josiah's  family  to 
fourteen,  Mrs.  Carew  stood  on  the  causeway  full 
two  hours  waiting  to  intercept  the  doctor's  de- 
parting gig.  She  was  anxious  for  the  welfare  of 
the  mother.  And  in  respect  of  the  new-comer  (a 
matter  of  minor  importance,  one  would  think,  in  a 
progeny  so  numerous)  she  felt  curious  to  ascertain 
the  sex.  Then  she  hastened  to  be  first  at  the 
Manor  Farm  with  the  information. 

But  one  day  early  in  September,  Sutton  Street 
became  a  scene  of  unparalleled  activity.     In  the 

morning  Mr.  Poltimore  drove  up  with  an  unknown 

40 


All  Hurry-Push  41 

friend  and  a  brace  of  pointers.  In  a  village  desti- 
tute of  gentry  for  at  least  a  couple  of  centuries, 
with  only  the  memorial  tablets  in  the  little  church 
to  speak  of  a  forgotten  grandeur,  Mr.  Poltimore, 
the  estate-agent,  was  a  personality  of  vast  import- 
ance. A  florid  man  of  fine  presence  and  imposing 
dignity,  his  slightest  movement  awakened  a  breath- 
less interest.  People  listened  to  his  words  and 
afterwards  repeated  them.  "  Where's  John  Sand- 
boy ?  Doesn't  John  Sandboy  know  I  am  here  ?  " 
Everybody  was  off  to  the  cottage  with  the  stickle 
roof  Then  John,  pulling  on  his  fustian  jacket, 
came  running  down  the  street.  Not  being  a  land- 
owner, with  a  fine  sense  of  fitness  in  things,  Mr. 
Poltimore  did  not  keep  a  gamekeeper ;  but  on 
sporting  expeditions  John  was  his  body-guard,  and 
at  all  times  understood  to  keep  an  eye  upon  the 
game.  Peering  above  her  window- blind,  Mrs. 
Carew  noticed  that  contrary  to  custom  the  party 
had  gone  first  to  the  Manor  House  instead  of  to 
the  hill.  Now  why  was  that  ?  And  who  was 
Mr.  Poltimore's  friend  ? 

A  little  later  the  postman  passed  through  the 
parish.  He  brought  a  letter  for  Mr.  John  Culli- 
ford,  an  event  which  did  not  happen  once  in  a 
twelvemonth.  Now  what  could  that  be  about  ? 
A  new  pa'son  for  Sutton,  I  wonder  ?  'Twas  to  be 
hoped,  sure,  there  was  nothing  the  matter. 


42  "Love  and  Quiet  Life" 

And  then  Constable  Moggridge  came  over  from 
Upton,  without  doubt  to  look  into  that  little  matter 
of  four  weeks  ago,  because,  if  he  dared  not  to  take 
the  man  up  without  a  warrant,  it  was  just  as  well 
to  know  what  was  going  on.  He,  Josiah  Clarke, 
and  Abraham  Bartlett  stayed  talking  so  long  by 
the  corner  of  the  churchyard  wall  that  it  really 
made  Mrs.  Carew's  blood  boil  to  think  how  men- 
folk could  waste  their  time.  Unless  of  course 
there  was  anything  wrong.  For  sure !  there  is 
nothing  wrong — is  there  ? 

Apparently  not.  In  course  of  time  these  village 
worthies  separated  to  go  about  their  business — all 
but  Solomon  Moggridge  who  slowly  went  "up 
street."  As  sure  as  fate  there  must  be  something 
in  the  wind,  for  wherever  could  Solomon  be  going? 
Mrs.  Carew  could  scarcely  contain  her  curiosity,  as 
she  saw  the  constable  cross  the  road  and  enter  the 
gate  of  the  square  white  house.  What  could  he 
want  there?  Was  he  begging  for  the  chapel  at 
Upton — or  what  ? 

With  truly  feline  persistence  she  waited. 

Presently  the  constable  reappeared,  followed  by 
Mr.  Burt  and  Marion  ;  but  in  the  street  they 
parted,  he  to  take  the  path  across  the  fields  to 
Upton,  and  they  to  start  upon  their  walk. 

Down  the  causeway  they  came  as  usual ;  but  Mr. 
Burt  was  talking,  and  the   girl    intently  listened. 


All  Hurry-Push  43 

As  they  came  by  the  window,  little  Mrs.  Carew 
drew  quickly  back,  but  waited  within  hearing. 

"I  do  not  like  the  errand,"  he.  said  nervously. 
"  It  seems  like  an  intrusion.    But  I  could  not  say  no." 

"  No,  dear  Father,"  Marion  replied  softly,  "  you 
could  not  say  no." 

Mrs.  Carew  popped  back  to  the  window,  and 
craning  forward  her  thin  neck  until  her  sharp  chin 
almost  touched  the  pane,  keenly  watched  the 
retreating  figures.  But,  heart  alive  !  they  passed 
the  drang-way  and  kept  to  the  road  right  down 
through  parish  by  the  church.  Little  Mrs.  Carew 
immediately  perceived  that  in  such  incidents  as 
these  lies  the  making  of  history.  She  decided 
that  there  was  just  time  before  dinner  to  clap  on 
her  bonnet  and  pop  over  to  Manor  Farm. 

Unconscious  of  attracting  observation  Mr.  Burt 
and  Marion  pursued  their  way.  They  took  the 
open  road  to  Mr.  Culliford's,  so  often  travelled  by 
Tranter  Coombs.  The  sky  was  clear,  and  not  a 
drop  of  rain  had  fallen  for  a  fortnight  ;  and  as  be- 
hind them  the  kissing-gate  fell  back  against  the 
post,  a  flock  of  starlings  rose  by  the  hedgerow, 
turned  in  the  air,  and  alighted  in  the  further  corner 
of  the  field.  Wagtails  were  running  on  the  grass 
between  the  cows  ;  and,  although  the  air  was  still 
as  soft  as  summer,  swallows  had  congregated  on 
the  roofs  of  the  farm  buildings. 


44  "Love  and  Quiet  Life" 

"  No ;  I  could  scarcely  refuse,"  he  repeated,  as 
they  passed  the  uppinstock.  "  He  said  they 
thought  of  me  because  I  so  often  go  to  church. 
Yet  I  only  know  Mr.  Culliford  by  sight.  I  some- 
times think,  Marion,  this  isolation  may  have  been 
unwise." 

He  looked  at  her  affectionately,  as  if  she  were 
indeed  the  subject  of  this  doubt  ;  but  she  only 
smiled.  "  Perhaps  we  shall  see  Tamsin,  Father," 
she  said  quite  gaily.  And  so  they  passed 
between  the  grape-vine  and  the  flower -knot, 
entered  the  great  porch,  and  rapped  upon  the  open 
door. 

But  Mr,  John  Culliford,  always  in  red  waist- 
coat and  white  shirt-sleeves,  was  there  himself, 
beaming  open-hearted  good  nature.  Now  to  see 
Mr.  John  Culliford  improving  his  mind  with  the 
tranter,  or  gravely  judicial  with  Abraham  and 
Josiah  was  one  thing  ;  but  Mr.  John  Culliford 
hospitable  was  quite  another. 

"  Walk  in,  Zir.  Walk  in,  Missie,"  he  cried,  leading 
the  way  into  the  great  kitchen.  "  Now  zit  down, 
both  o'  ee,  do.  Not  there,  Missie,  in  the  draught  o' 
the  winder.  Why  all  these  years  you've  a-lived  to 
Zutton,  an'  this  the  vu'st  time  you've  a-comed  to 
see  John  Culliford.  Now,  what  '11  you  take,  Zir  ? 
Ay !  Now  Missie  'ud  like  to  put  her  tooth  into  a 
good  zwit  apple " 


All  Hurry-Push  45 

"No,  thank  you,  Mr.CulHford,"  interposed  Marion, 
"  Ees  you  'ood.  I  do  know  you  'ood." 
At  once  he  went  off  in  search  of  that  succulent 
fruit,  and  Marion  had  leisure  to  look  around  her. 
Bright  green  shoots  of  ivy  were  sprawling  across 
the  diamond-shaped  panes,  and  clinging  to  the 
tall  mullions  which  ran  almost  to  the  dark  oak 
ceiling.  The  floor  was  paved  with  cool  blue  flags, 
worn  here  and  there  into  hollows  by  feet  long  ago 
at  rest.  Everything  was  sweet  and  refreshing, 
from  the  plates  and  dishes  glistening  on  the 
dresser  shelves  to  the  shining  oaken  bench  flanked 
with  long  stools.  Her  eye  rested  a  moment  on 
the  high-backed  settle,  flitted  to  the  dried  herbs 
hanging  against  the  wall,  and  finally  settled  upon 
the  clavey  board  above  the  immense  open  fire- 
place, where  hung  a  cavalry  sword  quite  new  and 
bright  as  silver. 

''  Mr.  Culliford  must  have  joined  the  new 
Yeomanry  troop,"  said  Mr.  Burt. 

"  Yeomanry  troop.  To  be  zure  he  have.  Zo  'ud 
you,  Zir,  if  you  wur  ten  year  younger,"  cried  the 
farmer,  returning  at  that  moment  with  a  double 
handful  of  apples.  "  Here,  Missie,  take  one,  an'  hold 
up  your  pocket.  There,  Mrs.  John  Culliford  have 
a-gone  up  to  tiddyvate,  so  you'll  excuse  she,  wu'n't 
ee  ?  Mr.  Poltimore  'uU  be  in  by'm-by.  Ay,  Mr. 
Burt,  the  country  is  in  a  terr'ble  state.     'Tes  high 


46  "Love  and  Quiet  Life" 

time  somethen  wur  a-done,  sure  enough,  or  we 
shall  all  be  a-burned  in  our  beds  some  fine  night 
avore  we  can  zo  much  as  turn  roun'  to  think 
where  we  be.  But  'tes  a  judgment,  Mr.  Burt,  for 
all  this  pandcren  to  Popery.  You  don't  hold  wi' 
this-here  putten  all  the  power  into  the  ban's  o' 
Popery,  do  ee?  No  ;  you  be  a  Churchman,  vor  all 
you  mid  walk  over  to  Upton  of  a  Zunday  night  in 
summer.  That's  nothcn.  There's  no  harm  in  that. 
More  vor  fresh  air,  an'  to  stratch  your  lags  like,  'an 
'tes  to  hear  the  Methodies." 

Emboldened  by  this  approval,  so  strangely 
bearing  upon  the  object  of  his  visit,  Mr.  Burt 
began  : — 

"  I  greatly  esteem  your  liberality,  Mr.  Culli- 
ford " 

"  Not  at  all — not  at  all,"  interrupted  the  farmer, 
probably  thinking  of  the  apples. 

"  The  more  so  as  I  came  to  ask  a  favour " 

"  Zo  do  ee  then.     Zo  do  ee." 

"  Mr.  Moggridge  called  upon  me " 

"  What,  Solomon  Mog^^ridge  ?  He's  a  terr'ble 
poor  constable.  Don't  zay  a  word  o'  Solomon 
Moggridge." 

"  On  behalf  of  the  good  people  of  Upton,  of 
course,  to  entreat  me  to  solicit  of  your  good 
nature,  permission  to  use  occasionally  during  the 
winter  months  your  little  chapel." 


All  Hurky-Push  47 

"  No !  Not  vor  thirty  thousan'  Solomon  Mog- 
gridges.  No  !  "  The  explosive  suddenness  of  Mr. 
John  Culliford's  refusal  quite  silenced  gentle  Mr. 
Burt.  "  No !  No  Methodies  here.  Never  while 
John  Culliford  do  live.  Don't  let  'em  come  here. 
Solomon  Moggridge,  indeed !  No.  I  be  a  Church- 
man born  an'  bred.  'Tes  no  good  to  come  wi' 
thik  tale  to  John  Culliford " 

"  I  am  sorry  to  have  annoyed  you,  Mr.  Culli- 
ford,"' faltered  Mr.  Burt  as  he  rose  to  take  his 
leave. 

"  'Noyed  I  ?  You  ha'n't  'noyed  I,"  replied  the 
farmer  in  apparent  suprise.  "  Solomon  Moggridge 
indeed !  Do  ee  sit  down,  Mr.  Burt.  Well  then, 
if  you  ca'n't  stay  now,  do  ee  come  in  again.  Look 
in  any  time  you  do  come  theiis  way.  Solomon 
Moggridge,  indeed !  Very  glad  to  ha'  made 
your  'quaintance,  Mr.  Burt.  Good  day,  Zir.  Good 
day,  Missie." 

The  visitors  reached  the  road  with  sighs  of  relief 
as  if  in  thankfulness  for  deliverance  from  an  earth- 
quake or  sudden  whirluintl.  They  had  only  been 
in  the  house  five  minutes,  and  Marion's  pocket 
was  crammed  full  of  apples.  "  Yet  perhaps  I 
ought  to  have  reasoned  with  him,"  reflected  Mr. 
Burt  half  sadly.  And  on  the  footpath  across  the 
fields  little  Mrs.  Carew  was  climbing  over  a  distant 
stile  with  considerable  judgment  and  precision. 


48  "Love  and  Quiet  Life" 

Mrs.  Culliford,  having  popped  upstairs  to  put 
herself  tidy,  and  chancing  to  peep  from  her  bed- 
room window  between  the  looking-glass  and  the 
curtain  into  the  home-field,  took  careful  note  of 
the  approaching  visitor. 

Mrs.  Carew  was  evidently  not  intending  to  stay. 
The  absence  of  the  basket  containing  the  work,  the 
cap,  and  the  mittens  precluded  that  possibility. 
Mrs.  Culliford  hastily  finished  her  toilet,  and 
hurried  out  to  welcome  Mrs.  Carew  at  the  open 
door. 

"Good  marnen,  Mrs.  Crew.  An'  how's  Mrs. 
Crew?" 

"  Good  marnen,  Mrs.  Culliford,"  responded  Mrs, 
Carew. 

"  Now  do  ee  walk  in  an'  zit  down  in  the  cool. 
Take  the  chair  by  the  window,  unless  you  be 
afeard  o'  the  draught.  Now,  do  ee  take  off  your 
bonnet,  Mrs.  Crew." 

They  were  great  moralists,  Mrs.  Culliford  and 
Mrs.  Carew ! 

To  si3end  an  hour  with  them  was  to  become  not 
only  enlightened,  but  spiritually  refreshed. 

Of  the  two,  living  in  the  centre  of  Sutton,  as  it 
were  in  the  very  vortex  of  civilization,  Mrs.  Carew 
was  perhaps  the  better  informed,  but  Mrs.  Culliford 
possessed  the  happier  philosophy.  They  were  the 
most  important  ladies  in  Sutton,  and  Mrs.  Carew 


All  Hurry- Push  49 

supported  her  dignity  upon  two  little  rigid  curls, 
two  little  tortoise-shell  combs,  and  a  little  some- 
thing caught  up  in  a  net  of  chinille.  Being  a  widow 
comfortably  left,  she  wore  black  whenever  she 
went  out  on  a  visit ;  and  thus  was  entitled  to  a  re- 
spectful sympathy  such  as  the  most  enduring  wife 
cannot  claim. 

"I  ca'n't  stay,  thank  ee,  Mrs.  Culliford.  But 
there,  I  mid  zo  well  just  undo  the  strings." 

Mrs.  Carew  never  unexpectedly  took  off  her 
bonnet,  for  reasons  best  known  to  herself,  but  fully 
recognised  by  other  ladies.  The  invitation,  there- 
fore, was  a  delicate  refinement  on  the  part  of  Mrs. 
Culliford,  So  they  sat  face  to  face  by  the  window, 
and  the  breeze  fluttered  the  long  black  strings. 
Mrs.  Culliford — honest,  motherly  soul — would  have 
made  two  of  Mrs.  Carew,  and  having  tiddyvated, 
she  wore  a  front  which  the  most  fastidious  could 
not  have  called  false,  so  frankly  did  it  invite  ad- 
miration as  a  work  of  art. 

"An'  zo  you've  a-had  visitors,"  said  the  little 
woman,  with  a  toss  of  the  head. 

"  Only  to  ask  for  the  little  chapel  ;  but  there, 
o'  cou'se  Measter  had  his  own  mind  to  use.  He 
don't  hold  much  wi'  the  Methodies.  Not  but  what 
there  mus'  be  different  sorts  in  the  world,  I  sup- 
pose. We  ca'n't  be  all  alike,"  replied  placid  Mrs 
Culliford. 

4 


50  **  Love  and  Quiet  Life" 

"  That's  very  true,"  reflected  Mrs.  Carew.  "  Dif- 
ferent heads,  different  thoughts.  That's  how  'tes, 
you  see ;  but  all  ordained  no  doubt  for  a  wise 
purpose."  She  suddenly  sank  her  voice  to  an 
awesome  whisper.  "  You  don't  happen  to  know 
who 'tes  out  wi'  Mr.  Poltimore,  I  suppose?" 

"  One  Mr.  Hensley.  Been  abroad.  He  do  want 
to  live  twelve  months  at  a  farm  to  get  a  insight. 
Measter  took  to  the  man  terr'ble.  But  la !  I  don't 
think  I  could  abide  strangers  here." 

"  What !  is  there  a  talk  o'  his  coming  to  Manor 
Farm?"  And,  eager  with  inquisitiveness,  little 
Mrs.  Carew  poked  forward  her  sharp  thin  face. 

"  No  ;  Mr.  Poltimore  just  threw  out  a  hint  like. 
But  there,  massy  'pon  us !  I  should  be  afeard  o' 
my  life  wi'  a  strange  face  a'ways  about  house  for  a 
twelvemonth.     An'  folk  be  zo  different " 

"  They  be.  I  thought  the  zame  me  very  own 
zelf  a  little  by-now.  There  I  bin  to  sich  a  bustle 
all  day,  that  never  a  minute  have  I  had  to  zit 
down  an'  draw  breath,  zo  to  speak ;  but  I  did 
just  bechance  to  catch  zight  o'  Solomon  Moggridgc 
out  in  street  a-talken  wi'  Josiah  Clarke  and  Abra- 
ham Bartlett,  an'  really  to  zee  they  dree  voolish 
men  were  zo  good  as  a  play ;  for  Josiah  did  mop 
his  forehead,  an'  Abraham  did  scratch  his  crown, 
an'  Solomon  did  hold  out  his  vore-vinger  to  explain, 
that  really    if    I    hadn'    a-felt    so  angry   I   should 


All  Hurry-Push  51 

a-laughed  outright.  Oh  !  by-the-bye  !  I  zaw  post- 
man goo  up  across — not  bad  news,  I  hope  ?  " 

"  No.  Only  to  zay  new  pa'son  'ull  be  here  Zun- 
day  wick.     But  only  to  preach — not  to  bide." 

"  Oh,  Zunday  wick.  That'll  be  zummat  to  tell 
Zutton  volk  then.  Well,  'tes  to  be  hoped  he  wu'n't 
be  one  o'  they  whose  thoughts  be  all  a-zet  'pon 
things  o'  theas  world.  But  you  be  busy,  Mrs. 
Culliford,  wi'  Mr.  Poltimore  about  an'  all " 

From  that  moment  Mrs.  Carew  began  to  exhibit 
symptoms  of  restlessness.  She  had  fulfilled  her 
mission.  The  possession  of  exclusive  information 
raised  her  spirits  and  restored  her  wasted  energies. 
She  really  must  be  going.  She  had  only  come  for 
a  minute.  She  would  look  over  and  stay  longer 
another  time.  And  so  she  presently  tied  up  her 
strings,  and  hastened  homewards  across  the  fields, 
without  one  thought  of  the  hot  weather,  or  a  single 
reflection  on  the  danger  of  walking  herself  into  a 
fever  and  then  sitting  down  in  a  draught. 

The  orchards  were  covered  with  rosy  apples, 
and  the  hazel  bushes  in  the  lane  laden  with  clus- 
tering nuts.     By  the  drang-way  she  met  Josiah. 

"  The  new  pa'son  '11  be  here  Zunday  wick.  Sure 
'tes  to  be  hoped  he'll  prove  a  good  man." 

"  Oh  !  "  said  Josiah. 

At  a  spring  in  a  nook  of  the  wall  at  the  end  of 
the   causeway    old  Grammer   Sandboy,   a   copper- 


52  "Love  and  Quiet  Life" 

complexioncd,  witch-like  old  crone  of  doubtful 
reputation,  was  waiting  for  the  gurgling  stream  to 
fill  her  red  pitcher. 

"  Pa'son  '11  be  here  next  wick." 

"  Oh  ! "  said  Grammer. 

Cottagers  stepped  out  of  doors  to  catch  the 
words,  and  Sutton  was  thrown  into  a  fever  of 
excitement  from  which  it  was  impossible  to  recover 
for  a  fortnight 


CHAPTER   VI 

THE   PRIMITIVE    PASTORAL    PARISH 

The  fateful  Sunday  came  at  last.  It  was  under- 
stood that  the  new  parson  was  staying  in  the 
neighbourhood,  had  sent  on  a  parcel  by  the  tranter, 
and  would  ride  over  for  the  service ;  so  the  vil- 
lagers strolled  down  to  the  church  in  good  time. 
All  the  men  wore  "tutties"  in  their  button-holes, 
and  the  women  carried  handkerchiefs  and  posies 
in  their  hands.  They  lingered  around  the  lich-gate 
and  the  church-porch  in  groups,  wondering  what 
the  new-comer  would  be  like.  A  consensus  of 
opinion  determined  that  he  would  not  be  like 
"  wold  pa'son  that  wur  gone."  That  was  not  to  be 
expected.  But  no  morbid  pessimism  prevailed  in 
Sutton.  They  spoke  of  the  new  parson  as  hope- 
fully as  of  a  new  potato,  and  confidently  cherished 
the  expectation  that  he  would  prove  "  a  good 
sort." 

Josiah  Clarke  and  Abraham  Bartlett,  not  from 
pride,  but  conscious  of  the  state  to  which  God  had 
called  them,  stood  apart  from  the  rest  conversing 
wisely  upon  the  comparative  quietude  of  the  days 

53 


54  **  Love  and  Quiet  Life  " 

of  their  youth,  and  wondering  when  Abraham 
ought  to  bom  the  bell. 

Then  Mr.  Culliford  came  hurrying  through  the 
"  drang."  He  was  excited,  and  in  contrast  with  his 
bright,  brass-buttoned,  blue  coat,  his  face  appeared 
more  rosy  than  ever.  He  glanced  at  the  group 
around  the  porch,  and  mysteriously  beckoned 
Josiah  and  Abraham  into  the  road. 

"  Zo  zure  as  the  light  !  "  he  cried,  "  that  rascally, 
rick-burning  fellow  is  a-riding  down  the  lane  at  a 
walk,  'pon  the  zame  sorrel-coloured  ho'se,  wi'  a  little 
short  black  rod  in  the  han'  o'  un.  Zure,  he  must 
want  to  pry  about  whilst  we  be  to  church.  Unbe- 
known I  watched  the  man  over  hedge,  an'  he  looked 
at  his  watch,  an'  pulled  up  steady-like,  as  if  he  had 
plenty  o'  time." 

"  He'll  wait  till  the  bell's  down,  an'  then  come  in 
parish." 

"  Or  tie  up  his  ho'se  to  some  gate,  an'  walk  roun* 
the  grounds." 

Unconscious  of  the  suspicion  surrounding  him, 
the  rider  came  leisurely  round  the  corner,  tapping 
as  usual  upon  the  horse's  off-shoulder. 

The  wisdom  of  Sutton  scanned  him  narrowly. 
He  was  wearing  a  black  coat  and  a  white  clerical 
necktie,  but  he  looked  younger  than  formerly,  and 
smiled  as  if  in  anticipation  of  welcome.  Then 
he    drew    rein,    tucked    the    unlawful    weapon    or 


The  Primitive  Pastoral  Parish     55 

engine  under  his  arm,  and  cordially  held  out  his 
hand. 

"Mr.  John  Culliford,  I  expect.  I  am  Mr. 
Percival." 

Quick  as  lightning  the  truth  flashed  upon  Sut- 
ton. The  faces  of  Josiah  and  Abraham  became 
simultaneously  illuminated.  Yet  it  was  a  moot 
point  for  the  next  quarter  of  a  century  as  to  which 
brain  the  idea  struck  first,  for  Abraham  knew  it 
was  the  parson  as  soon  as  the  horse  came  round  the 
corner,  whereas  Josiah  got  a  bit  of  an  inkling  when 
Mr.  John  Culliford  first  spoke.  Mr.  John  Culliford 
shook  hands  without  beaming,  and  with  becoming 
dignity.  He  doubted  whether  a  man  responsible 
for  such  a  serious  mistake  could  possibly  turn  out 
a  "  good  sort." 

However,  Mr.  Percival  dismounted.  Josiah  with 
alacrity  led  away  his  horse.  Abraham  ran  full- 
pelt  into  the  tower  and  proudly  rang  the  three 
bells,  a  rope  in  each  hand,  whilst  his  right  foot  in  a 
stirrup  pulled  the  third.  Mr.  Culliford  accom- 
panied the  clergyman  to  the  crypt. 

"  I  suppose  the  hymns  are  chosen  ?  "  said  Mr. 
Percival,  putting  on  his  surplice. 

"They  do  always  choose  in  the  gallery,"  explained 
Mr.  Culliford,  "  four  ve'se  hymns,  or  stop  at  four 
ve'ses.  An'  the  pa'son  an'  clerk  do  vessy  the 
psalms  for  we  to  zing  the  '  Glory  bes'." 


56  "Love  and  Quiet  Life" 

"  Everything  will  be  just  as  usual." 

Yet  although  this  assurance  was  so  eminently 
satisfactory,  Mr.  Culliford  felt  a  presentiment  that 
all  was  not  well.  The  more  so  when  the  new 
parson,  unfolding  the  unlawful  weapon  or  engine, 
took  out  a  sermon  neatly  written  at  considerable 
length.  As  Mr.  Culliford  walked  to  his  seat  in  the 
chancel,  he  reflected  with  discontent  that  ten 
minutes  extempore  is  better  than  an  hour  read  out. 

But  everything  was  just  as  usual.  Except  that 
when  he  recited  the  Apostles'  Creed  the  new 
clergyman  turned  to  the  east — a  piece  of  ritual  to 
which  Sutton  had  been  unaccustomed. 

The  villagers  glanced  doubtfully  at  each  other, 
and  Mr.  Culliford  frowned. 

But  the  opportunity  of  the  parish  did  not  occur 
until  it  was  time  to  give  out  the  first  hymn.  Then 
came  a  pause,  a  rustling  of  leaves  and  a  tuning  of 
musical  instruments  behind  the  red  curtains  on  the 
gallery  rail.  Josiah  rose,  and  with  a  deep  sense  of 
responsibility  slowly  arranged  on  the  telegraph 
three  figures  making  the  number  of  the  hymn. 
Abraham  shaded  a  puckered  brow  with  his  brown 
hand,  read  and  gave  out, — 

"  Let  us  sing  to  the  praise  an'  glory  of  God  four 
ve'ses  of  the  243rd  hymn." 

The  congregation  rose  and  turned  towards  the 
musicians,  and  such  was  the  simple  unanimity  of 


The  Primitive  Pastoral  Parish     57 

Sutton,  that  persons  holding  seats  under  the 
gallery  joined  in  the  general  movement  and  turned 
their  faces  to  the  west  wall.  Then  the  curtains 
were  thrown  aside.  The  two  instruments,  a  yellow 
flute  and  a  dark-coloured  bassoon,  were  revealed. 
And  if  the  flute,  by  reason  of  its  nimbler  tempera- 
ment, or  carried  away  by  keener  susceptibility,  ever 
found  itself  in  front,  it  loyally  waited  without  im- 
patience to  commence  fairly  on  the  following  verse. 
At  last  they  finished  on  a  comma,  with  a  happy 
sense  that  music  was  worth  living  for,  and  life  com- 
plete. As  Josiah  drew  the  curtain,  forgetting  all 
tribulations  as  to  time  and  tune,  he  whispered  that 
"  it  wasn'  so  very  dusty." 

John  Sandboy  replied  that  it  was  "  tcrr'ble 
good." 

They  thought  only  of  the  triumph  of  the  perfor- 
mance, as  people  remember  only  the  virtues  of  the 
dead. 

The  shock  came  when  Mr  Percival,  still  in  his 
surplice,  walked  up  the  pulpit  steps.  Never  had 
such  a  thing  been  seen  in  Sutton,  and  everybody 
cast  around  furtive  glances  to  discover  what  other 
people  thought.  Mr.  Culliford,  as  usual,  covered 
his  head  with  a  red  handkerchief,  and  gave  himself 
up  to  serious  reflection.  The  sermon  ran  on  and 
on  with  insidious  smoothness.  Mr.  Culliford  did 
not   understand    it,   but  he    knew   the   danger  of 


58  "  Love  and  Quiet  Life  " 

swallowing  unsound  doctrine  unawares.  Why, 
there  is  nothing  on  earth  so  honey-sweet  as  a  Papist 
in  disguise.  Thus  when  church  was  out,  the  new 
parson  gone,  and  the  parishioners  were  strolling  up 
the  street,  or  standing  in  groups  on  the  causeway, 
uncertain  what  to  think,  he  found  his  ideas  clearly 
formulated  and  his  utterance  free. 

"  We  don't  want  no  Popery  to  Zutton,"  he  cried. 

"  Measter  don't  want  no " 

"  I  don't  call  it  decent  o'  the  pa'son  to  turn  his 
back  upon  the  people,"  piped  little  Mrs.  Carew. 

"  The  man  turned  roun'  an'  stared  I  straight  in 
the  face.  I  don't  want  no  Papist  to  stare  John 
Culliford  in  the  face.  An'  he's  no  age  nother.  An' 
what  do  he  want  to  wear  a  surplice  in  the  pulpit 
for  ?  I  do  call  it  scand'lous  to  send  a  bwoy  like 
he  to  talk  to  staid  volk  like  we.  Why,  he's  little 
more  'an  just  out  from  college.  A  bwoy  in  a  bed- 
gown, that's  what  I  do  call  un — a  bwoy  in  a  bed- 
gown. 'Tes  the  thin  end  o'  Popery,  that's  what  'tes. 
We  don't  want  no  Popery  to  Sutton.  Let  the 
Methodies  have  the  little  chapel.  You  can  tell  'em 
so,  Mrs.  Crew.  So  zoon  as  they  be  a-minded.  Oh 
no  !  We  don't  want  no  Popery  here.  I  do  hold 
wi'  Church  an'  State.  An'  I  don't  grumble  about 
tithes.  But  be  dalled  if  we  do  want  Popery,  No, 
no " 

He  turned  away,  too  excited  to  stand  and  talk  ; 


The  Primitive  Pastoral  Parish     59 

but  as  he  walked  up  the  lane,  his  lusty  voice  could 
still  be  heard  denouncing  Popery,  and  declaring  his 
determination  to  "  let  'em  have  the  little  chapel." 

The  new  parson  returned  delighted  to  his  friends. 

Sutton,  he  told  them,  was  a  sweetly  primitive, 
pastoral  little  place. 


CHAPTER   VII 

THE   STRANGER 

Delighted  with  her  new  possession,  Marion 
Burt  hung  the  portrait  of  her  mother  over  the 
mantel-shelf  in  her  bedroom,  beneath  an  illumin- 
ated text  and  the  sampler  she  had  worked  in 
childhood. 

It  was  an  increasing  joy,  and  exercised  an 
influence  over  her  thought  and  character  almost 
like  intercourse  with  a  human  being.  In  the 
warm  summer  days  she  used  to  carry  her  work 
there,  and  the  presence  of  the  picture  did  away 
with  all  loneliness.  It  was  company  at  night, 
when  the  village,  frugal  of  candle-light,  lay  at 
rest ;  and  she  would  sit  up  looking  over  the  letters 
and  sermons  which  she  had  brought  down  from 
the  garret. 

These  she  read  together,  arranging  them  b\' 
tlieir  dates,  and  once  there  was  a  reference  in  tlic 
letter  to  the  eloquence  of  the  previous  Sunday, 
followed  by  a  feverish  anticipation  of  the  next. 

"  TJicn   at  least  I  shall  see  my   dearest  agaiji" 

said  the  faded  writing.     "  But  it  seems  a  tJwiisand 

years  to  the7i" 

60 


The  Stranger  6i 

The  perusal  of  these  fragments  from  a  romance 
of  long  ago  heated  her  imagination  and  engaged 
her  sympathies.  The  weaving  a  delicate  story 
from  such  slender  threads  moved  her  to  tears, 
and  affected  her  more  deeply  than  the  reading  of 
any  mere  fiction  could  have  done.  It  was  true, 
it  was  real,  and  interwoven  with  the  tenderest 
sentiments  natural  to  her  maiden  heart.  Her 
mother  loomed  out  of  the  forgotten  past  to  be 
near  her  in  the  solitude  ;  to  become  the  heroine 
of  her  dreams,  the  prototype  and  ideal  of  all  that 
her  immaculate  fancy  could  conceive  of  love.  This 
mother  who  had  loved  so  well,  and  died  so  soon, 
leaving  her  father  to  years  of  isolated  sadness. 

It  seemed  to  Marion  that  if  only  such  a  passion 
were  kindled  in  the  soul,  life  must  be  for  ever 
complete. 

She  looked  upon  the  picture  so  often  that  every 
feature,  every  wave  and  turn  of  the  ringlets,  every 
detail  of  the  dress  became  familiar — she  knew 
it  all  by  heart.  One  night,  when  everything  was 
still,  after  her  father's  door  was  shut,  and  the 
footsteps  of  the  maid  had  ceased  upon  the  floor 
above,  a  sudden  impulse  prompted  her  to  dress 
her  hair  after  the  manner  of  the  portrait.  It  was 
not  exactly  vanity,  for  no  one  would  ever  see,  but 
an  outcome  of  the  infatuation  which  had  taken 
possession  of   her.     She  wanted  to  resemble  her 


62  "Love  and  Quiet  Life" 

mother  in  form,  in  manner,  in  fidelity  in  the  face 
of  opposition — in  all,  except  the  end  so  early  and 
sad.     And  this  aspiration  was  a  form  of  worship. 

She  lavishly  lit  two  large  wax  candles,  kept  on 
the  mantel-shelf  for  ornament  rather  than  use,  and 
placed  them  one  on  either  side  of  the  looking- 
glass  on  her  dressing-table.  She  brought  the 
precious  relic  to  inspire  her  efforts,  and  she  un- 
bound her  long  black  hair,  hitherto  closely  im- 
prisoned in  a  serious  plait.  It  fell  around  her 
neck  and  shoulders  as  if  rejoicing  in  its  new-found 
freedom.  Hundreds  of  times  she  had  seen  it  thus, 
and  yet  the  wealth,  the  luxury  of  its  beauty  had 
never  been  disclosed  to  her  before.  She  had 
never  thus  thought  of  it  before.  But  the  attempt 
was  in  no  sense  a  success.  The  reluctant  tresses 
could  not  readily  conform  to  a  demand  so  strangely 
unexpected,  nor  wreathe  themselves  in  ringlets  at 
a  moment's  notice.  Yet  as  they  fell  across  her 
forehead  the  change  was  startling.  The  whole 
character  of  her  face  was  altered,  and  she  saw, 
with  a  feeling  of  exultation  not  wholly  free  from 
alarm,  that  the  likeness  to  the  portrait  was  very 
striking.  For  the  first  time  in  her  life  she  asked 
herself  if  she  were  beautiful ;  and  the  thought  was 
a  revelation  to  her. 

Of  course  she  had  no  intention  to  adopt  any 
such  change. 


The  Stranger  St^ 

Yet  why  not  ?  Her  father,  engrossed  in  his 
books  and  meditations,  would  probably  not  notice 
it,  and  there  was  no  one  else  to  see.  So  little  did 
personal  vanity  enter  into  the  question  that  the 
strength  of  the  position  lay  in  the  possibility  that 
the  alteration  might  be  effected  unobserved.  Yet 
there  were  terrors  in  such  a  new  departure.  She 
wondered  would  the  people  stare  if  she  went  thus 
into  the  street  or  to  the  little  chapel  over  the  hill. 

These  doubts  were  so  real  that  days  elapsed 
before  she  repeated  the  experiment ;  but  after  that 
she  did  so  constantly,  and  with  ever-increasing 
skill.  With  a  little  practice,  a  little  coaxing  and 
twirling  around  the  forefinger,  the  curl  became 
quite  natural ;  and  growing  familiarised  with  it 
herself,  she  ceased  to  dread  the  effect  of  its  sudden 
apparition  upon  the  congregation  of  Upton.  Yet 
many  weeks  passed,  and  no  change  was  made. 

One  Sunday  morning  late  in  September  she  was 
standing  by  the  open  window  in  her  bedroom. 
The  air  was  fresh  and  sweet,  for  there  had  been 
rain  in  the  night,  and  the  scent  of  clove  carnations 
arose  from  the  garden  below.  Her  father  was 
walking  slowly  up  and  down  the  path,  his  head 
bent,  his  hands  behind  his  back.  Sometimes  he 
stopped,  looked  at  his  watch,  and  then  continued 
his  walk. 

The  pervading  calm   lulled  to  rest  her  last  re- 


64  "Love  and  Quiet  Life" 

maining  scruple.  With  a  sudden  impulse  she 
turned  to  the  mirror,  and  with  excited,  nervous 
fingers  rearranged  her  hair  in  the  manner  now 
familiar  to  her  solitude.  Then  her  courage  almost 
failed,  and  she  stood  in  breathless  hesitation. 

Some  stragglers  from  an  outlying  hamlet  were 
leisurely  creeping  down  to  church.  The  three 
bells  in  Sutton  tower  began  to  sing  their  "ding, 
dang,  dong."  Then  her  father  stopped  once  more 
and  looked  up  towards  the  open  window. 

"  Marion  !  Marion  !  "  he  cried. 

"  Yes,  Father." 

"I  want  you  just  one  moment." 

He  often  called  her  thus,  sometimes  to  impart 
a  thought  or  ask  some  question  suggested  of  his 
meditation.  Then  he  was  ever  restless  until  he 
had  unburdened  his  mind. 

"  Yes,  Father." 

There  was  no  help  for  it  now.  She  took  one 
final  glance,  returned  the  miniature  to  the  mantel- 
piece and  ran  downstairs. 

Her  father  was  advancing  towards  the  porch,  as 
in  her  anxiety  not  to  keep  him  waiting,  she  hurried 
into  the  sunlight,  and  flashed  upon  him  suddenly 
face  to  face. 

Haste  and  excitement  had  brought  the  colour 
to  her  cheek.  She  was  a  little  out  of  breath,  and 
her  red  lips  were  slightly  parted.     Her  eyes  looked 


The  bTRANGER  65 

very  large  and  bright  The  plain  simplicity  of  her 
soft  grey  summer  attire,  destitute  of  all  adornment 
but  the  white  embroidery  collar,  fastened  with  a 
black  ribbon  at  her  throat,  heightened  by  contrast 
the  vivid  character  of  her  face. 

As  she  met  her  father's  glance  the  light  faded. 
She  had  believed  some  mild  remonstrance  possible, 
but  he  spoke  no  word  of  censure,  nor  uttered  any 
complaint.  He  only  looked  at  her  with  astonish- 
ment and  pain,  as  if  some  sad  and  tender  memory 
had  been  too  suddenly  recalled.  There  was  a 
certain  twitching  movement  around  his  mouth,  as 
though  he  wanted  to  speak,  but  restrained  himself 
Then  he  sighed.  She  could  have  borne  rebuke, 
but  this  silent  reproach  was  unbearable.  Her  eyes 
quailed  and  sought  the  ground.  To  the  end  of 
life,  Marion  could  never  forget  that  look. 

Tears  came  unbidden.  She  had  pained  him 
with  this  vain  folly,  and  his  patience  touched  her 
heart.  In  an  outburst  of  remorse,  she  rushed  to 
her  room,  brushed  away  the  unhappy  ringlets,  and 
hastily  restored  the  plait  It  was  the  only  repar- 
ation within  her  power. 

She  put  on  her  bonnet,  and  joined  him  in  the 
garden. 

"  Come,  Marion,  we  shall  be  late,"  he  said,  as  he 
held  open  the  gate. 

They  walked   slowly  down  the  street  in  sober 

5 


66  "  Love  and  Quiet  Life  " 

silence.  Such  was  their  habit,  for  her  father's 
thoughts  were  often  far  away,  and  she  had  learned 
never  to  interrupt  his  reverie.  But  to-day  the 
absence  of  speech  seemed  unnatural.  She  did 
not  venture  to  look,  yet  she  could  detect  his 
disquietude.  She  almost  wished  he  would  find 
fault,  and  break  the  spell  which  had  fallen  on  them. 
Doubtless  he  also  was  conscious  of  this  mute 
constraint,  for  as  they  came  in  sight  of  the  church, 
he  asked  uneasily,— 

"  Is  it  not  to-night  that  a  preacher  is  coming 
from  Bridgetown  ?  " 

"Yes.     He  is  to  come  this  evening." 

Fears  of  Popery,  the  knowledge  that  two 
wagon-loads  of  seats  had  been  hauled  from 
Upton,  and  the  expectation  of  a  Boanerges  from 
Bridgetown,  were  sufficient  to  awaken  a  lively 
interest  in  Sutton  and  the  neighbourhood.  People 
who  had  never  wandered  from  their  parish  church, 
when  they  found  that  service  was  to  be  held  in 
Mr.  John  Culliford's  chapel,  walked  miles  to  be 
present  on  so  interesting  an  occasion.  Thus,  when 
Mr.  Burt  and  Marion  arrived,  the  little  building 
was  already  almost  full,  and  chairs  had  been 
brought  from  the  Manor  Farm  and  placed  in  the 
alley.  They  seated  themselves  near  the  door. 
The  promoters   of  the    meeting    hurried    up  and 


The  Stranger  67 

down  finding  places  for  strangers  until  the  last 
was  provided,  and  everything  became  still.  As 
Marion's  glance  wandered  over  the  rows  of 
alternate  heads  and  bonnets,  her  thoughts  retraced 
the  events  of  the  day.  Was  it  only  a  fancy  that, 
during  their  walk  to  the  chapel,  her  father's  manner 
had  been  even  softer  and  more  affectionate  than 
usual?  And  yet  in  the  afternoon,  at  the  hour 
when  they  were  used  to  read  together,  he  had 
walked  out  upon  the  moor,  without  even  telling  her 
or  asking  for  her  company.  She  had  watched  him 
passing  between  the  willow  trees,  and  thought,  with 
a  sinking  heart,  how  bowed  and  old  he  looked. 
Regarded  through  the  transparent  medium  of  her 
clear,  unsullied  sympathy,  her  little  vanity,  if  vanity 
it  were,  assumed  the  distorted  magnitude  of  a  sin. 

Then  the  chapel  became  abnormally  still. 

The  hour  was  past,  and  every  minute  seemed  alert 
with  expectation.  Then  followed  a  fluttering  and 
a  buzzing.  Heads  bent  over  towards  bonnets,  and 
bonnets  leant  over  towards  heads  in  whispered 
conference. 

Josiah  rose,  hastily  pushed  his  way  to  the  door, 
and  went  out.  Without  question  the  preacher  from 
Bridgetown  was  reprehensibly  late,  and  time  was 
precious,  because  night  drew  on  so  early  now. 
The  windows  were  all  open,  and  on  the  soft  air 
came  the  sound    of    the   clock    in    Sutton    tower 


68  "  Love  and  Quiet  Life 

striking  the  quarter  past  five,  and  still  he  had  not 
come.  With  admirable  presence  of  mind,  a  deacon 
from  Upton  gave  out  a  hymn,  to  occupy  and 
soothe  the  congregation.  But  habit  had  hardened 
their  custom  to  a  ritual,  and  although  there  were 
no  instruments,  the  congregation  turned  unani- 
mously to  the  west  to  sing.  Then  Mr.  John 
Culliford  himself  went  out,  and  made  his  way  to  a 
point  at  the  top  of*  his  orchard,  whence  he  could 
look  over  the  village  and  see  those  miles  of  road 
across  the  moor.  But  nowhere  was  there  man  o» 
horse  in  sight. 

It  was  clear  now  that  the  preacher  could  not 
arrive  in  time.  The  unregenerate  of  that  neigh- 
bourhood were  likely  to  have  the  laugh  over  this 
little  flock  of  Nonconformity. 

Marion  felt  a  touch  on  her  shoulder,  and  saw 
that  her  father  had  risen,  and  was  standing, 
anxious  to  pass  out  of  the  seat.  He  pushed  his 
way  gently  between  the  chairs,  and  having 
whispered  a  few  words  to  the  deacon,  ascended 
the  small  platform  which  was  to  serve  as  a  pulpit. 
He  had  been  the  subject  of  so  much  surmise,  that 
many  people  regarded  his  presence  there  with 
curiosity,  not  unmingled  with  distrust. 

"  Let  us  pray !  " 

The  congregation  settled  itself  to  listen,  closely 
and   critically.      As    for   Marion,   her   eyes   were 


The  Stranger  69 

riveted  upon  her  father.  The  far-away  past  of  her 
infancy,  of  late  so  frequently  and  vividly  pictured, 
was  brought  back  ;  and  although  all  this  was  so 
clearly  the  result  of  accident,  it  seemed,  in  some 
indefinable  manner,  a  sequence  to  her  thoughts. 
Then,  piercing  the  vague  uneasiness  which  fluttered 
in  her  soul  and  disturbed  her  thoughts,  came  the 
voice  of  his  prayer — always  for  forgiveness — 
forgiveness  and  the  power  to  forgive.  It  was  so 
real.  The  spirit  of  his  abstraction,  the  very  soul 
of  his  solitude  had  found  a  tongue.  The  words 
came  straight  from  his  heart,  warm  and  fresh,  with 
none  of  the  hackneyed  phrases  used  of  all  the 
preachers  she  had  ever  heard,  whether  from  far  or 
near.  They  possessed  the  vitality  which  springs 
from  some  living  experience — some  tempest  which 
has  torn  the  hopes  of  life  to  tatters,  and  left  it 
labouring  upon  the  waste.  It  was  so  real,  she 
recognised  instinctively  the  wail  of  a  heart's 
agony. 

Was  his  the  need  of  forgiveness — or  only  for  the 
strength  to  forgive  ? 

She  knew  his  guileless  life  too  well  to  think  him 
capable  of  ill.  And  what  in  these  years  of  isolation 
could  there  be  to  forgive  ?  No  living  being  could 
have  wronged  him  but  herself;  and  so  simple  was 
her  mind  that,  in  imagination,  her  sin  became  as 
deep   as   the   fervour   of  his   prayer.      She   grew 


70  "  Love  and  Quiet  Life  " 

tremulous  with  excitement,  and  her  heart  sickened 
with  remorse. 

The  congregation,  too,  was  moved  by  the 
fervid  sincerity  of  this  unexpected  preacher. 

Mr.  John  Culliford,  the  parish  churchwarden, 
whose  presence  was  scarcely  sympathetic,  but  only 
a  protest  against  Popery,  was  wont,  for  devotional 
purposes,  to  veil  his  head  in  a  red  handkerchief ; 
but  this  evening  he  sat  intent  and  uncovered, 
although  the  flies  kept  pitching  on  his  bald 
crown. 

And  Mrs.  Carew,  an  habitual  worshipper,  forgot 
the  spasms  which  usually  necessitated  the  con- 
sumption of  peppermint  drops,  although  from  uncer- 
tainty about  the  doctrine  she  did  not  utter  one 
appreciative  groan. 

In  this  little  meeting-house  the  "long  prayer,"  as 
it  was  called,  was  rarely  a  petition.  More  often  it 
took  the  form  of  an  explanation  to  the  Almighty 
of  the  exact  spiritual  condition  of  the  elect — a  very 
subtle,  intellectual  exercise,  exhibiting  the  nicest 
doctrinal  knowledge.  You  could  detect  unsound- 
ness in  prayer  with  even  greater  certainty  than  in 
preaching. 

James  Burt  only  poured  out  his  heart. 

But  perhaps  the  sermon  might  shine  with  more 
of  the  true  light. 

Because  of  the  delay  it  was  expedient  to  shorten 


The  Stranger  71 

the  service,  and  after  the  reading  of  a  brief  portion 
of  Scripture,  and  the  singing  of  a  hymn,  he  gave 
out  his  text.  The  subject  was  the  same,  ever  the 
same  as  the  prayer—  "  Forgive  us  our  debts  as  we 
forgive  our  debtors." 

His  habitual  diffidence  just  clung  around  and 
impeded  his  earlier  sentences ;  and  then,  forgetful 
of  the  past,  the  people,  and  everything  but  the 
flood  of  truth  surging  afresh  within  his  soul,  he 
preached  of  love  and  forgiveness,  human  and 
Divine,  with  that  warmth  of  eloquence  which  man- 
kind calls  inspiration. 

The  spirit  of  vacillation  no  longer  quivered 
around  his  lips.  Even  the  insignificance  of  his 
stature  was  lost  in  the  loftiness  of  his  spirituality. 
And  the  sun,  sinking  behind  the  moor,  glowed  rich 
and  red  through  the  hazy  summer  atmosphere,  and 
gleamed  aslant  through  the  Gothic  windows  of  the 
chapel,  re-gilding  faded  armorial  shields,  and 
shedding  a  ruddy  warmth  upon  the  walls. 

It  fell  on  Marion's  face  as  she  sat  listening  in 
astonishment  and  awe.  She  had  never  seen  the 
drama  nor  touched  the  tragedy  of  Life  ;  neither  had 
her  ears  ever  heard  words  like  these.  Yet  this 
sudden  outburst  of  eloquence  helped  to  fill  in  the 
romance  she  had  woven  around  her  father's  early 
life.  It  redeemed  his  character  from  a  certain 
vague  ineffectuality,  which  even  her  affection  could 


72  "Love  and  Quiet  Life" 

not  have  denied.     The   latent  woman   within  her 
could  realize  that  this  had  won  a  woman's  love. 

The  sermon  was  finished.  Her  father  descended, 
and  stood  nervously  at  the  foot  of  the  platform. 
The  congregation  shook  hands  over  the  seats,  and 
loitered  talking,  or  gathered  in  groups  in  the  field 
before  the  door. 

"  Ay,"  sighed  Mrs.  Culliford,  "  'twer  a  beautiful 
discou'se,  sure  enough.     He  mus'  be  a  good  man." 

"  But  very  little  Gospel  about  un,  to  my  mind." 
objected  Mrs.  Carew.  "  Ah,  Mrs.  Culliford,  it  may 
be  zwit  to  the  ear,  but  little  to  carr'  away." 

"  I  do  call  he  do  preach  main  well,"  said  Mr. 
John  Culliford. 

When  Marion  and  her  father  came  out  of  the 
chapel,  the  villagers  were  dispersing  homewards  in 
twos  and  threes  in  the  calm  evening  light. 

The  glow  of  sunset  was  fading  upon  ridge,  and 
wood,  and  brake,  and  a  flight  of  rooks  was  passing 
slowly  over  the  hill-top.  Far  away  in  the  west 
was  a  mass  of  livid  cloud  broken  into  vivid  streaks 
of  passionate  and  inconstant  splendour ;  but  the 
earth  was  steeped  in  a  spirit  of  sweet  contentment, 
and  birds  sang  as  they  sometimes  sing  of  an 
autumn  evening  in  memory  of  the  summer  which 
is  past. 

James  Burt  laid  his  hand  on  his  daughter's  arm 
and  they  walked  down  the  footpath  more  quickly 


The  Stranger  ']'^^ 

than  was  his  wont.     By  the  stile  into  the  lane  he 
hesitated  and  stopped. 

"  Let  us  walk  over  the  hill,"  he  said.  And  they 
turned  up  the  familiar  way  they  had  so  often 
trodden. 

They  were  now  free  of  the  houses,  and  hidden 
between  high  hedgerows.  The  dim  twilight  of  the 
wood  before  them  promised  a  seclusion  suitable  for 
the  outpouring  of  an  overladen  heart. 

"  Marion,"  he  began,  "  it  is  fourteen  years  since 
I  preached  the  Gospel  of  God  to  mortal  ears. 
Fourteen  years  I  have  been  numbed,. and  cold,  and 
dumb.  Then,  when  I  preached  it  was  half  vanity 
and  pride  of  heart  ;  and  now  the  noon  of  life  is 
past,  the  day  is  departing,  and  the  night  cometh 
when  no  man  can  work." 

His  agony  of  soul  was  pitiable  !  But  what  could 
she  say  ?  She  could  only  press  his  hand  tightly 
against  her  side  in  mute  sympathy. 

They  had  passed  the  gentle  ascent  and  reached 
the  foot  of  the  knap,  where  the  road  winds,  rough 
and  steep,  beneath  the  overhanging  trees,  yet  in 
his  excitement  he  only  quickened  his  steps. 

"  But  to-day  I  have  received  a  call.  If  the 
opportunity  had  not  been  vouchsafed  to  me  to- 
night, I  must  have  gone  in  search  of  it.  I  dare 
not  remain  longer  in  sloth,  but  must  go  into  the 
vineyard.     Truly   the    harvest    is   great,    but    the 


74  "  Love  and  Quiet  Life  " 

labourers  are  few  ;  and  I  have  loitered  long  in 
idleness,  moaning  over  the  thorns  in  my  flesh,  but 
forgetting  the  crown  of  scorn  upon  His  brow  ;  over 
the  aching  in  my  heart,  but  heeding  not  His 
pierced  side.  God  forgive  me  !  The  blow  was  hard 
to  bear,  and  I  broke  under  it.     God  forgive  me  !  " 

There  is  a  gloom  of  despondency  so  deep  that 
consolation  becomes  as  ineffectual  as  a  rushlight  in 
the  open  night. 

"  You  have  always  been  good,"  she  murmured. 

He  sighed  ;  then  moaned — the  moan  of  that 
distress  which  is  so  much  more  terrible  than  any 
physical  pain. 

Then  he  continued  more  quickly,  "  I  had  been 
thinking  to-day  that  we  must  go  back  into  the 
world.  The  years  have  fled,  and  perhaps  the  past 
is  forgotten.  But  the  vacant  pu' :)it  to-night  was 
like  a  call  to  me.  It  came  like  an  answer  to  my 
secret  thoughts,  and  I  felt  the  finger  of  God  in  it.  I 
will  offer  myself  to  these  people.  I  will  minister 
to  them  freely.  I  will  go  to-morrow  and — I  say,  I 
will  go  to-morrow  and — and " 


They  had  reached  the  open  ground  above  the 
wood,  where  the  road  runs  along  the  hill-top.  The 
moon,  full  and  clear,  was  rising,  although  the  last 
gleam  of  day  had  not  departed.  By  the  road-side 
was  a  square  pile  of  stone  as  yet  unbroken,  and  he 
staggered  towards  it  and  sat  down. 


The  Stranger  75 

«  Father  !     What  is  it  ?     Are  you  ill  ? " 

"  I  am  overcome — overcome." 

He  could  scarcely  answer,  but  leant  forward 
gasping  for  breath,  his  head  resting  on  his  hands. 

"  You  have  walked  too  fast,"  she  lamented. 

Then  he  leant  back  upon  the  stones  and  did  not 
move. 

The  gleam  vanished  from  the  clouds,  the  glow  of 
sunset  faded  from  the  sky.  There  is  a  moment 
when  the  darkness  seems  to  make  a  sudden  stride, 
and  the  earth  feels  unspeakably  lonely  in  the  still 
dim  light.  The  sheep-dog  at  the  Manor  Farm  was 
barking.  An  owl  was  hooting  away  across  the 
moor.  The  gorse  upon  the  hill-top  stood  out  rigid 
and  black  like  a  blot  upon  the  night. 

With  difficulty  Marion  raised  her  father's  head 
and  placed  it  upon  her  lap.  His  breathing  was 
now  scarcely  perceptible,  and  he  gave  no  answer  to 
her  imploring  cries.  In  her  helplessness  she  called 
for  help.  But  no  response  came  out  of  the  dusk. 
Knowing  well  the  frugal  habits  of  the  villagers, 
who  scarcely  lighted  a  candle  when  the  days  were 
long,  the  thought  flashed  across  her  mind  that  no 
one  would  pass  that  way.  What  could  she  do  ? 
Her  courage  sank  under  the  heavy  fear  that  her 
father  was  dying.  She  must  get  assistance.  And 
yet  she  dared  not  leave  him  to  go  in  search  of 
help. 


"](>  "Love  and  Quiet  Life" 

The  intensity  of  her  emotion  made  the  moments 
seem  like  hours.  At  last  in  the  distance  she  be- 
came aware  of  a  dull  thudding  sound.  She  listened, 
scarcely  able  to  distinguish  it  from  the  throbbing 
of  her  heart.  Then  a  distant  rider  turned  his  horse 
off  the  wayside  sward,  and  she  could  distinctly 
hear  the  beating  of  hoofs  sharp  and  clear  upon  the 
road.  She  called  for  help  ;  then  listened  again. 
The  pace  broke  into  a  gallop,  and  a  minute  later  a 
horseman  had  pulled  up  in  the  road  beside  her. 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  he  asked  eagerly.  He  vaulted 
from  the  saddle,  and  securing  the  rein  under  the 
stirrup-leather,  came  forward  to  her  assistance. 

In  her  relief  at  this  unexpected  aid,  tears  choked 
her  utterance,  and  she  could  scarcely  find  a  voice 
to  give  the  necessary  explanation.  Yet,  in  spite  of 
her  agitation,  every  detail  of  the  incident  became 
impressed  for  ever  on  her  memory. 

Without  hesitation  the  stranger  deftly  loosened 
collar  and  neck-cloth,  and  taking  from  his  pocket 
a  flask,  held  it  to  the  lips  of  the  prostrate  man,  who 
presently  raised  his  head  and  gasped. 

"  Ha  !  That  did  you  good,  eh  ?  Now  a  little 
more."  Then  he  turned  to  Marion.  "  He  will  be 
all  right  in  a  moment.  He  has  only  fainted.  But 
what  has  he  been  doing?  Down  to  Mr.  John 
Culliford's  tochapel — over-excited  himself — hurried 
up   the   hill   to   be  home  to  Upton  before  dark. 


The  Stranger  77 

Mustn't  do  that  sort  of  thing  now.  Elderly  gentle- 
man,— out  of  condition, — mustn't  put  on  the  pace." 

His  careless  manner  reassured,  her.  It  would 
have  been  impossible  to  speak  thus  lightly  in  the 
presence  of  real  danger  ;  moreover  his  surmises,  so 
carelessly  uttered,  were  nearly  correct. 

"  We  are  not  going  to  Upton,"  she  explained. 
"  We  live  in  Sutton,  and  were  simply  taking  a 
walk.     I  do  not  know  how  to  thank  you " 

"  Please  don't  try,"  he  interrupted.  In  the  dusk 
he  had  believed  them  village  people,  but  now  his 
tone  was  quite  respectful.  "  I  am  very  glad  I 
happened  to  pass.  I  am  going  to  Mr.  Culliford's, 
and  will  wait  and  help  you  if  you  will  allow  me  to 
do  so." 

Her  gratitude  was  beyond  expression,  even  if 
she  could  have  found  words.  He  had  come  like 
an  angel  of  mercy  out  of  the  gloom  and  saved  her 
father's  life.  Even  in  the  dim  light  she  knew  that 
he  was  young,  and  there  crept  into  her  heart  an 
intuition,  never  to  be  explained,  but  never  forgotten, 
which  linked  him  with  her  life.  She  could  only 
murmur  acceptance  of  his  offer,  and  nothing  re- 
lieved the  silence  but  her  father's  returning  respira- 
tion, and  the  horse  contentedly  cropping  the  road- 
side grass. 

The  stranger's  prediction  was  quickly  verified. 
A  little  later  her  father  was  sufficiently  restored  to 


7$  "  Love  and  Quiet  Life  " 

sit  up  and  think  of  returning  home.  The  stranger 
fetched  his  horse,  threw  the  bridle  over  his  arm, 
and  assisted  the  patient  to  rise.  They  then 
descended  the  hill  through  the  wood  together, 
Marion  on  one  side  of  her  father  and  he  on  the 
other,  with  the  horse  nervously  holding  back  and 
sometimes  stumbling  in  the  uncertain  light.  After 
the  hollow  the  open  lane  seemed  quite  light.  The 
stranger  began  to  talk  quite  freely. 

"  I  am  going  to  stay  some  time  with  Mr.  CulH- 
ford.  What  a  fine  old  house  it  is  !  And  what  a 
thoroughly  right-hearted,  wrong-headed  man.  He 
has  let  the  Nonconformists  have  the  old  Beauchamp 
Chapel.  A  desecration,  no  doubt.  But  I  cannot 
help  laughing." 

He  had  readily  discarded  his  first  idea  that  they 
were  Dissenters  ;  but  at  such  levity  Marion  felt  her 
father  wince,  although  he  made  no  comment. 

"  I  am  deeply  indebted  to  you.  Sir.  But  I  am 
unacquainted  with  my  benefactor,"  said  Mr.  Burt, 
stopping  as  they  reached  the  village. 

"  Oh,  my  name  is  Hensley.  But  I  will  see  you 
safely  home." 

At  the  garden  gate,  with  a  renewal  of  thanks, 
they  parted. 

"  I  hope  I  may  soon  see  you  again,"  said  Mr. 
Hensley,  as  he  shook  hands  with  Marion.  Then 
he  mounted  his  horse  and  rode  away. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

CRAMMER'S  PITCHERS 

Mr.  Percival  preached  three  Sundays  before  he 
came  to  live  at  Sutton,  and  the  service  in  the 
chapel  took  place  a  week  earlier  than  that  event. 
He  at  once  proceeded  to  call  upon  all  his  parish- 
ioners, passing  from  door  to  door  with  a  systematic 
ardour  never  before  witnessed  in  that  neighbour- 
hood. These  attentions  should  doubtless  have  en- 
deared him  to  his  flock,  for  his  manners  were  quite 
simple  and  kindly,  but  for  the  unfortunate  suspicion 
under  which  he  laboured.  There  lived  in  Sutton 
one  old  man  at  least  who,  before  his  memory  failed, 
could  remember  having  known  in  youth  another 
old  man  who  had  seen  the  hangings  and  horrors 
of  the  "  Duking  days "  as  they  used  to  call  the 
time  of  Monmouth's  rebellion.  Fearful  tales  were 
still  told  over  the  wood  fire  of  a  winter  night,  and 
lost  nothing  either  by  repetition  or  antiquity. 
Sutton  was  as  firmly  convinced  now  as  then  that 
it  did  not  want  any  Popery,  and  such  unprece- 
dented zeal  could  not  fail  to  awaken  the  deepest 
distrust.     Papists  were  known  to  be   zealous,  but 

79 


8o  "  Love  and  Quiet  Liee  " 

never  before  had  Sutton  felt  cause  of  complaint. 
Well-to-do  people  questioned  the  wisdom  of  thus 
currying  favour  with  the  poor,  and  the  humble 
doubted  in  their  hearts  the  dignity  of  so  much 
demonstration. 

As  Mrs.  Culliford  said  to  Mrs.  Carew,  "Twenty 
minutes  by  Zutton  clock,  so  Measter  have  a-heard, 
did  he  stay  in  the  Sandboys'  cottage,  but  only 
fourteen  to  Josiah  Clarke's.  To  my  mind  a  pa'son 
should  keep  hiszelf  for  the  Zunday,  an'  not  be 
hindering  folk  wi'  their  work." 

"  Why,  'tes  out  o'  one  door  into  another  all  up 
street,  as  Abraham  said,  '  more  like  a  rabbit  wi'  a 
stoat  to  his  tail  or  a  Johnny  Fortnight  than  a 
pa'son.'  I  don't  call  that  religion  myself.  Why, 
all  the  years  poor  wold  pa'son  lived  in  Zutton,  an' 
always  so  much  liked,  an'  so  pleasant  to  stop  an' 
speak,  you  never  knew  un  visit  nor  so  much  as 
darken  the  door,  'ithout  you  were  'pon  the  point 
o'  death  or  some  other  good  reason.  Do  really 
make  a  body  doubtful,"  said  Mrs.  Carew. 

It  was  early  in  October  when  Mr.  Percival 
called  upon  the  Burts,  the  white  house  being  the 
last  dwelling  in  the  parish.  From  the  study  window 
Marion  and  her  father  watched  his  approach. 
Never  before  had  she  known  a  formal  visitor,  nor 
any  whose  errand  might  not  easily  be  divined  ;  and 
this  intrusion  upon  their  retirement  (as  at  first  it 


GraiMmer's  Pitchers  8i 

seemed)  of  an  able-bodied,  active  young  cleric  in  a 
soft  hat  and  coat  of  impressive  length  and  straight- 
ness  of  cut,  caused  their  simple  hearts  to  flutter 
with  alarm.  His  rat-ta-tat  upon  the  door  sounded 
as  appalling  as  a  threat  of  invasion. 

But  doubts  were  quickly  dispelled  under  the 
influence  of  his  genial  presence.  He  was  in  the 
first  warm  flush  of  life,  recently  presented  to  an 
excellent  living,  and  his  heart  was  overflowing  with 
delight — with  his  church,  with  his  people,  with  his 
parish.  He  was  certain  that  he  should  get  on 
excellently  well  in  Sutton.  He  already  loved  the 
place.  And  everybody  came  to  church.  In  so  far 
as  he  could  judge  on  Sunday  morning  last  not  one 
was  absent 

"  There  is  only  one  thing,"  he  said,  suddenly 
becoming  grave.  "  The  strange  way  in  which, 
when  singing,  the  congregation  turns  to  the  west. 
When  I  am  better  known,  and  have  gained  the 
confidence  of  the  people,  I  must  alter  that.  But  I 
do  not  anticipate  any  difficulty.  Everybody  seems 
so  delightfully  simple-minded  and  sincere." 

Mr.  Burt  lifted  his  mild  grey  eyes  to  gaze  upon 
the  visitor.  The  sympathy  between  Marion  and 
her  father  was  so  close  that  she  could  feel  the 
doubt  he  hesitated  to  express.  The  frankness  of 
the  clergyman  laid  on  bis  tender  conscience  the 
duty  of  open  speech, 

6 


82  "Love  and  Quiet  Life" 

"  Yes.     They  are  very  quiet  folk,"  he  began. 

"  And  there  is  no  dissent — at  least,  no  antagonism 
of  dissent,"  continued  Mr.  Percival.  "  I  understand 
there  is  a  chapel  at  Upton,  and  that  people  go 
there  from  Sutton  of  a  summer  evening.  But  I 
shall  have  an  evening  service.  That  will  allure 
them  from  these  by-paths  of  Nonconformity." 

For  the  pure  sensibility,  which  so  often  looks 
like  cowardice,  there  is  no  compromise  with  con- 
science, and  there  was  no  time  to  lose,  for  Mr. 
Percival  had  risen  to  depart. 

"  Occasionally  they  hold  services  at  the  Manor 
Chapel,"  said  Mr.  Burt  quickly.  "  I  have  myself 
helped  them — preached  for  them,  in  fact." 

A  scarcely  perceptible  expression  of  vexation, 
like  the  fleeting  shadow  of  a  spring  cloud,  flitted 
over  Mr.  Percival's  face.  Then,  as  he  held  out  his 
hand,  he  said  pleasantly, — 

"  I  hope  you  will  both  help  me.  And  if  at  any 
time  I  can  be  of  use,  pray  regard  me  as  a  friend." 

Marion  led  him  to  the  door.  The  wild  honey- 
suckle twining  over  the  porch  was  still  in  flower, 
and  he  loitered  a  moment,  asking  questions  about 
the  garden  and  the  plants  that  thrive  in  Sutton. 
Fascinated  by  the  subject,  she  walked  with  him  to 
the  gate  to  point  out  the  row  of  tall  hollyhocks 
and  the  clustering  nuts  upon  the  filbert  tree. 

The  street  was  empty,  except  for  old  Grammer 


Grammer's  Pitchers  8^ 

Sandboy  returning  with  her  two  red  pitchers  from 
the  well.  She  put  them  down  upon  the  road  and 
rested,  for  the  old  soul  had  seen  her  three-score 
years  and  ten.  Seeing  the  parson,  she  picked  them 
up  and  hurried  along,  with  a  deep  respect  for 
quality,  a  recollection  of  the  industry  of  her  youth, 
and  an  eye  to  future  alms. 

Marion  stood  awhile  by  the  gate  to  watch  Mr. 
Percival  striding  down  the  street.  The  novelty  of 
a  visitor  had  proved  quite  delightful,  and  she  felt 
all  the  charm  of  his  pleasant  manners  and  airy, 
easy  ways.  It  was  impossible  not  to  like  him,  she 
thought. 

Then  an  accident  happened,  full  of  quaint  pathos 
to  those  who  saw  it.  The  story  is  still  related  in 
Sutton,  and  if  people  laugh — what  then  ?  It  is 
they  who  bring  the  laughter,  for  at  the  time  there 
were  tears. 

The  parson  strode  along,  pre-occupied  and  in 
haste. 

Grammer  toiled  homewards  beneath  her  weight 
of  years  and  pitchers. 

As  they  met,  the  parson,  for  a  moment  interrupt- 
ing his  thought,  looked  up,  nodded  to  the  old 
lady  with  unexpected  friendliness  and  passed  on. 

Grammer,  in  the  glowing  warmth  of  her  gratifica- 
tion, curtsied — the  old-fashioned,  lowly  curtsey  of 
her  youth. 


84  "  Love  and  Quiet  Life  " 

And  something  happened.  The  handles  were 
still  in  her  hands,  the  lips  remained  unbroken,  yet 
the  pitchers  were  in  pieces,  and  on  either  side 
water  was  dripping  from  her  skirt. 

She  uttered  no  exclamation  of  astonishment  or 
lament.  She  only  stared  at  the  shining  potsherds 
at  her  feet  and  the  great  water-stains  upon  the 
dusty  road.  Long  before  she  realized  the  cause  of 
her  calamity  the  parson  was  out  of  sight.  And 
when  Marion  ran  down  to  offer  consolation  or 
assistance,  the  old  woman  was  still  clutching  the 
useless  handles,  whilst  tears  ran  down  her  wrinkled 
cheeks.  At  the  first  word  of  sympathy,  she  fell 
to  picking  up  the  sherds,  and  putting  them  in  her 
apron  with  a  sort  of  broken-hearted  affection. 

Neither  took  heed  of  a  horseman  riding  slowly 
through  the  village,  until  he  drew  rein  to  shake 
hands  with  Marion,  glanced  at  the  old  woman,  and 
laughed. 

"  Why,  what's  the  matter,  Mother  ?  " 

"  I've  a-curchied  the  bottoms  o'  'em  out — both 
to  once,"  she  sobbed. 

In  a  moment  Mr.  Hensley's  hand  was  in  his 
pocket,  and  a  coin  glittered  in  the  old  woman's 
hollow  palm.  "  Bless  your  honour !  Bless  your 
honour's  handsome  face,"  she  cried,  as,  astonished 
at  the  munificence  of  the  gift,  she  hobbled  off  to 
the  cottage. 


Grammer's  Pitchers  85 

"  Wicked-looking  old  witch,"  he  laughed. 

It  sounded  strange  to  Marion  Burt,  this  rapid 
transition  from  sympathy  to  contempt,  but  he  had 
already  dismissed  both  emotions, 

"  I  was  coming  to  inquire  for  your  father,"  he 
said. 

"  He  will  be  glad  to  see  you,"  she  replied 
warmly.  "  He — we  have  spoken  of  you  several 
times.  He  has  blamed  himself  for  not  writing  a 
note  to  thank  you " 

"  Not  at  all.  I  have  been  thinking  of  you,  too, 
and  looking  forward  to  seeing  you  again." 

In  his  voice  was  a  strange  caressing  quality, 
quite  new  to  her,  and  as  their  eyes  met,  she  glanced 
away  and  walked  on,  looking  upon  the  ground. 
Since  her  father's  illness  the  daily  walks  had  be- 
come irregular,  and  were  often  given  up  altogether. 
Tired  of  the  house,  Marion  busied  herself  in  the 
garden,  and  sometimes  made  solitary  excursions 
upon  the  moor.  But  constantly  the  recollection  of 
this  man  had  taken  possession  of  her  loneliness. 
With  never-varying  flight,  like  birds  of  passage, 
her  thoughts  unerringly  sped  to  a  far-off  land  of 
romance.  She  did  not  take  them  for  reality,  these 
fancies  wherein  moved  a  stranger  once  dimly  seen 
in  the  twilight,  but  she  revelled  in  them  with  a 
wild  unrest.  And  now  his  manner  carried  on  the 
dream.     The  colour  mounted   to  her  cheek.     She 


86  "  Love  and  Quiet  Life 

could  have  cried  with  vexation  at  her  inability  to 
conceal  her  blushes. 

"  I  begin  to  like  Sutton,"  he  went  on.  "  I 
thought  just  now  I  should  never  be  able  to  stand 
it.  I've  knocked  about  a  great  deal  and  seen  a 
variety  of  life.  I  began  to  yearn  for  primitive 
simplicity,  and  Mr.  Poltimore  recommended  me  to 
Mr.  Culliford.  He  certainly  seems  likely  to  pro- 
vide it.  I  like  the  people  and  the  place.  I  came 
under  the  impression  that  I  might  learn  some 
farmincf,  and  I  still  cherish  the  hallucination." 

Even  in  the  first  sentence,  Marion  detected  a 
levity  hitherto  unknown  and  quite  incompre- 
hensible. He  laughed  gaily — at  what  she  could 
scarcely  tell — at  his  own  ineffectuality,  and,  as  it 
seemed,  at  the  fully-recognised  folly  of  learning 
farming  of  Mr.  John  Culliford.  To  speak  of  a 
serious  step  in  life  as  merely  of  another  act  in  a 
comedy,  sounded  strange  to  one  who  could  bring 
a  keen  and  nervous  interest  to  the  identification 
of  a  herb.  Yet  the  gaiety  was  infectious,  and  she 
laughed  also. 

The  Sandboy  family,  all  who  could  run,  came 
swarming  through  the  garden-hatch.  Even  the 
old  man  stood  up,  and  the  last  baby  was  at  Mrs. 
Sandboy's  breast.  To  break  two  pitchers  with  one 
bob,  and  without  loss  of  property,  was  a  very 
interesting  incident ;  and  there  were  the  sherds  and 


Grammer's  Pitchers  87 

stains  of  water  on  the  road,  sure  enough.  Aware 
of  preternatural  activity,  Mrs.  Carew  peeped  fronn 
the  window.  Mrs.  Clarke  ran  into  the  street. 
John  Sandboy  was  by  to  take  the  horse,  and 
Mr.  Hensley  dismounted  and  walked  by  Marion's 
side. 

"  Lawk-a-daisy  ! "  ejaculated  Mrs.  Sandboy  with 
a  laugh.  "  Why,  the  maid  have  a-picked  up  a 
young  man  !  " 

"An'  I  hope  she  have  wi'  all  my  heart,"  responded 
Mrs.  Clarke,  a  well-to-do  matron  without  the 
slightest  desire  to  favour  monopoly. 

But  Marion  did  not  hear  these  comments.  She 
was  listening  with  undivided  attention  to  Mr. 
Hensley. 

"  I  never  see  you  anywhere.  Where  do  you  hide 
yourself  all  the  time  ?  " 

"  We  have  not  been  out  since — since  that  night. 
My  father  has  walked  to  Bridgetown  to  the  doctor 
several  times.  He  seems  disinclined  to  go  out, 
but  he  feels  he  must  do  that." 

"  But  why  does  he  walk  ?  Mr.  Culliford  shall 
drive  him.  He  constantly  goes  in.  He  shall  let 
you  know.     I  will  arrange  it." 

"  I  should  be  very  glad,  but " 

"  Or  I'll  get  the  cart  and  drive  him  myself  No, 
I  won't  do  that,  because  it  is  not  suitable  for  a 
lady.     I  shall  stay  in  Sutton,  and  see  if  you  go  for 


88  **  Love  and  Ouiet  Life  " 

a  walk.  Then  I  shall  come  and  talk  to  you.  You 
used  always  to  go  over  the  hill,  they  say.  But  you 
have  never  been  there  since  I  knew  you." 

"  How  do  you  know  ?  " 

"  You  will  see.  The  first  time  you  come  I  shall 
be  there." 

She  laughed  a  little  incredulously. 

"  I'll  bet  you  what  you  like — I  mean — a  woman's 
noblest  virtue  is  her  curiosity.  You  will  be  com- 
pelled to  come  to  prove  me,  and  so  I  shall  talk  to 
you  again." 

But  they  had  reached  the  gate.  "  Here  is  my 
father,"  said  Marion. 

Mr.  Burt  had  put  on  his  hat  and  was  walking 
slowly  down  the  path,  tapping  the  gravel  with  his 
stick.  His  face  was  troubled,  for  his  conscience 
could  not  rest.  Ought  he  to  have  spoken  more 
frankly  to  the  clergyman  ?  To  have  told  him  that 
Sutton  was  not  quite  Paradise,  and  that  ceremonial 
and  a  spotless  surplice  were  frightening  the  flock  ? 
He  was  so  deeply  absorbed  that  at  first  he  did  not 
notice  Marion's  companion. 

"  Mr.  Hensley  has  come  to  see  you,  Father,"  she 
eaid  quietly. 

Awakened  from  his  reverie,  he  looked  up  quickly, 
and  hurried  towards  the  gate. 

"  But  you  were  going  out,  Mr.  Burt.  I  will  come 
at  some  more  convenient  time." 


Grammer's  Pitchers  89 

"  Not  immediately.  You  observe  my  daughter 
is  not  ready." 

"  I  will  not  interfere  with  your  plans." 

They  stood  in  the  garden  talking,  whilst  Marion 
went  indoors.  In  the  twilight  the  other  night,  and 
now  in  the  confusion  of  her  inexperience,  she  had 
been  unable  to  calmly  notice  Mr.  Hensley.  From 
an  upstair  window  she  looked  out  at  them.  How 
tall  and  strong  he  looked  beside  her  father.  His 
hair  was  light,  his  features  even,  and  his  complexion 
tanned  by  a  foreign  sun.  He  wore  only  a  moustache, 
a  distinction  in  those  days,  and  he  v/as  still  talking 
with  the  same  irresponsible  gaiety.  When  she 
rejoined  them,  they  walked  together  to  the  Sand- 
boy cottage,  where  he  mounted  his  horse  and  rode 
away.  Did  he  press  her  hand  as  they  said  "Good- 
bye "  ?  Or  was  it  only  fancy  ?  She  could  scarcely 
tell. 

The  walk  over  the  hill  that  afternoon  was  more 
than  usually  quiet.  Above  the  copse  they  stood 
awhile  to  rest  and  look  across  the  moor.  This 
wide  expanse  of  open  country  had  often  brought 
quietude  to  James  Burt,  soothing  his  spirit  and 
refreshing  his  soul  like  a  sight  of  the  sea.  But 
they  did  not  talk.  The  distant  hills  never  looked 
so  clear  as  beneath  the  early  autumn  cloud,  and 
the  Bristol  Channel  like  a  streak  of  silver  gleamed 
above  the  opening  of  the  moor. 


90  "Love  and  Quiet  Life" 

Yet  Marion  did  not  notice  these  delights.  Of 
the  fantastic  romance  of  her  solitude  another 
chapter  had  opened  ;  and  she  longed  to  be  at  home 
with  no  company  but  the  treasured  miniature  of 
her  mother.  In  her  fervid  imagination,  like  a 
superstition  having  for  awhile  the  force  of  truth, 
arose  the  idea  that  that  man  was  sent  to  Sutton — 
sent  by  Providence,  out  of  infinite  love,  to  satisfy 
the  yearning  of  her  soul. 

Already,  from  slender  materials,  her  busy  mind 
was  creating  an  ideal. 

How  kind  he  was — how  promptly  generous  in 
his  bounty  to  Grammer  Sandboy !  How  frank 
and  gay  in  his  self-disparagement !  How  thought- 
ful about  her  father  riding  to  Bridgetown !  How 
considerate  at  the  gate  ! 

With  a  thrill  of  joy  she  remembered  his  assur- 
ance that  they  must  meet  again. 


CHAPTER  IX 

CHEE-HALO I    HALO  I 

The  Sandboy  cottage  was  one  of  the  most 
picturesque  features  of  Sutton :  it  possessed  so 
richly  that  quaHty  of  quaint  homehness  which 
belongs  to  a  home-made  thing.  In  front,  a  clipped 
box  hedge,  and  a  lilac-bush  hanging  over  a  hatch 
roughly  put  together  from  old  apple  poles.  Half 
a  dozen  flags  lying  apart,  more  like  stepping-stones 
than  a  pavement,  led  to  the  ever-open  door  ;  and 
below  the  window,  on  the  left  hand  side,  stood  a 
row  of  bee-butts,  capped  with  hackles  of  yellow 
reed.  On  the  right  hand  side,  in  the  open  air,  sat 
old  John  Sandboy,  in  his  black  chair  with  the 
shining  arms. 

He  was  the  patriarch  of  Sutton,  and  the  founder 
of  the  Sandboy  family. 

More  than  half  a  century  before,  he  settled  on 
the  strip  of  wayside  waste  and  built  himself  a 
wooden  hut.  Nobody  interfered.  The  man  was  a 
character  in  his  way,  "  but  still,  for  all  that,"  as 
everybody  admitted,  "so  handy  as  a  gimlet." 
When   he   enclosed    the    land    all  the  neighbours 

91 


92  "Love  and  Quiet  Life" 

laughed.  When  he  put  up  the  cottage  Sutton  was 
filled  with  admiration.  As  folks  agreed,  "  If  John 
Sandboy  could  only  bide  there  forty  year  an'  pay 
noo  rent,  the  Ian'  'ud  be  his."  "Ay!  Ay!" 
retorted  the  Mr.  John  Culliford  of  that  day.  "  An' 
if  you  was  to  zit  'pon  my  gate-post  forty  year  an' 
pay  noo  rent,  the  gate  'ud  be  yours."  So  imprac- 
ticable did  the  thing  seem !  Yet  not  a  soul  said  a 
word,  and  the  miracle  came  to  pass.  Quite  a  tall 
pear  tree  spread  over  the  pointing-end  ;  the  front 
was  covered  with  creepers,  and  no  rent  had  ever 
been  paid. 

There  were  four  generations  of  Sandboys. 

There  was  Johnny  in  his  little  smock,  John  in 
his  fustian  jacket,  Gramfer  in  the  graveyard,  and 
"  the  wold  man." 

Johnny  called  him  "  Girt-gran-dadder." 

This  Sutton  Methuselah  was  nearly  a  hundred 
years  of  age,  and  could  neither  walk  far  nor  talk 
much  without  coughing.  But  for  all  day  long  in 
summer,  and  in  winter  when  there  was  a  gleam  of 
sun,  they  used  to  move  his  arm-chair  into  the  open 
air,  and  there  he  sat  alternately  blinking  and 
dozing  for  hours.  The  bees  buzzed  round  his  head, 
but  none  ever  stung  Girt-gran-dadder,  for  bees  are 
gifted  with  a  most  delicate  discrimination.  Some 
they  love  and  trust,  and  others  they  hate,  like  mere 
ordinary  Christians.    Thus  when  the  swarm  pitched 


•'  Chee-iialo  !     Halo  ! "  93 

that  summer  in  the  currant  bush  in  the  corner, 
Grammcr  took  them  up  by  the  double  handful,  and 
scraped  them  into  the  butt  without  a  single  sting  ; 
whereas  for  John  Sandboy  to  "  show  his  nose  a- 
nighst  the  butts  wer'  a'most  so  much  as  his  life 
wer'  wo'th."  Ah  !  Grammer  understood  the  bees 
and  all  their  mysteries.  And  Grammer  was 
thoughtful  of  late,  although  she  said  nothing,  for 
when  the  currant  bough  had  bent,  the  swarm 
touched  the  ground.  Grammer  felt  doubtful  in  her 
heart.     Was  it  for  her  or  for  Girt-gran-dadder  ? 

The  old  man's  grey  hose  slanted  beneath  the 
chair  ;  his  grey  head  went  nodding  upon  his  chest, 
and  he  seemed,  as  it  were,  to  be  shrinking  into  him- 
self like  a  concertina  laid  aside  when  the  tune  is 
done. 

Then  Johnny  used  to  creep  up  and  lay  his  hand 
upon  the  knee  of  the  old  corduroy  breeches.  At 
the  touch  of  the  quick  life  of  the  child,  Girt-gran- 
dadder  would  re-open  like  a  sea-anemone  when  a 
warm  current  passes  over  it.  He  became  radiant 
— began  to  throw  out  tentacles — stories  of  his 
youth,  recollections  long  hidden  in  his  memory  of 
the  feast,  the  fair,  the  cudgel-playing,  and  the  coro- 
nation of  King  George.  But  above  all  of  the  fool  ! 
A  particular  fool  in  spangles,  who  turned  somer- 
saults and  performed  antics  nearly  fourscore  years 
ago,  on  the  stage  in  front  of  a  travelling  show. 


94  "Love  and  Quiet  Life" 

Ha  !  ha  !  A  chuckle-headed  fool  who  mistook  a 
fat  sow  for  his  sweetheart.  Girt-gran-daddcr  de- 
clared it  was  almost  the  death  of  him  ;  and  then 
he  laughed,  and  coughed,  and  laughed  again,  until 
there  was  imminent  danger  that  it  might  be  so  after 
all.  Then  subsiding  into  seriousness,  he  lamented 
with  mingled  scorn  and  sadness  that  "  there  be  noo 
fools  now." 

This  story  exercised  a  fascination  over  Johnny, 
so  that  he  always  asked  : — 

"  Girt-gran-dadder,  do  ee  tell  up  about  the  fool." 

"  'Tes  a'most  time  the  bwoy  wer'  to  work,"  they 
kept  saying  many  times  a  day,  in  various  tones  of 
expostulation,  indignation  and  conviction.  But 
nothing  was  done  until  the  plough-ground  on  the 
hill-side  below  the  copse,  having  been  summer- 
fallowed,  was  put  to  winter  wheat.  Then  Mr.  John 
Culliford  rode  down  the  village  tapping  his  grey 
cob's  shoulder  with  a  ground-ash  stick,  and  drew 
up  before  the  Sandboys'  hatch.  The  boy  was  sit- 
ting on  the  doorstep  blowing  gruesome  noises  from 
a  cow's  horn, 

"Odds  bobs!"  cried  farmer  John  Culliford. 
"  Here's  a  fine  musicker.  Come  on,  bwoy.  Come 
on  to  once.  Let's  hear  thee  zing.  Let's  hear  thee 
holla." 

To   bask    in    the    sunshine    of    Mr.    Culliford's 


"  Chee-halo  !     Halo  !  "  95 

humour  the  household  swarmed  out  of  doors,  all 
the  four  generations  grinning  from  ear  to  ear,  for 
mirth  was  the  heritage  of  a  Sandboy. 

But  Johnny  blushed  and  was  silent. 

"  Dostn'  hear?  Let's  hear  thee  holla,"  com- 
manded his  father. 

"  Chee  halo  !     Halo  !     Halo  I 
Chee  halo  !     Ha-lo-Ioy  !  " 

"Capical,"  cried  Mr.  John  Culliford. 

So  Johnny  was  engaged  to  go  a-bird-keeping  on 
the  hill-side.  Of  three  bits  of  wood  and  a  boot-lace 
his  father  made  him  a  clapper,  and  Mr.  Culliford 
provided  a  rusty  old  flint-lock  pistol,  which  rarely 
went  off  Then  from  daylight  to  dark- night,  up 
the  lane,  through  the  copse,  and  on  the  hill-top,  you 
heard  the  blearing  of  the  horn,  the  rattle  of  the 
clapper,  and  the  constantly  repeated  chant : — 

"  Chee  halo  !     Halo  !     Halo  ! 
Chee  halo  !     Ha-lo-loy  ! " 

The  sea-fog,  cold  and  penetrating,  came  rolling 
up  the  moor,  then  a  rain,  fine  and  drizzling, 
which  wetted  the  boy  to  the  skin,  and  a  wind 
driving  the  last  yellow  leaf  from  the  elm  trees. 
With  an  inherited  genius  for  building,  Johnny 
made  himself  a  hut  of  hurdles  under  the  lee  of  a 
high  beech  hedge,  and  thatched  it  over  with  sedge. 
Then  he  gathered  dead  sticks  to  light  a  fire,  and 


96  "Love  and  Quiet  Life" 

grey  smoke  went  eddying  and  drifting  across  the 
red  field. 

By  his  own  fireside  the  boy  was  as  well  off  as 
many  another  householder — or  would  have  been, 
had  only  the  rooks  stayed  away.  But  the  birds 
found  Johnny  out  and  returned  with  the  persistency 
of  tax-collectors.  As  often  as  he  succeeded  in  firing 
his  pistol,  they  rose  slowly  to  the  bare  ash  tree  in 
the  corner  and  cawed,  like  Convocation  discussing 
Disestablishment.  As  to  the  horn,  although 
classical  music  sounded  a  little  strange  at  first,  no 
sooner  did  they  understand  it  than  they  would  fly 
miles  and  miles  to  listen. 

So  Johnny's  time  was  occupied  in  running  from 
one  end  of  the  field  to  the  other,  but  when  he  was 
going  east  they  pitched  on  the  western  side,  and  in 
the  morning  when  he  ran  west,  wise  rooks  came 
from  the  east  in  myriads  and  partially  obscured 
the  rising  sun.  Without  avail  he  hopped  over  the 
clods  in  boots  made  especially  for  that  purpose,  but 
nothing  less  than  wings  could  have  supplied  the 
necessary  speed,  and  these  were  denied  the  inhabi- 
tants of  Sutton  for  the  present. 

As  invariably  happens  to  young  housekeepers, 
responsibilities  increased. 

Bird-keeping  is  no  more  the  joke  it  seems  than 
bringing  up  a  family,  and  sharpens  the  wits  to  an 
equally  incredible  degree. 


"Chee-halo!     Halo!"  97 

So  Johnny  conceived  the  brilliant  idea  of 
making  a  mommet. 

With  a  pair  of  Mr.  John  Culliford's  worn-out 
breeches,  a  discarded  hunting  coat,  and  above  all, 
the  inestimable  treasure  of  an  old  clerical  hat  hung 
on  a  mop- stem,  with  a  broken  hay-rake  for  arms, 
he  set  up  a  fine  figure  of  a  man,  and  no  mistake. 
There  it  stood  boldly  fluttering  on  the  sloping 
arable  ground  in  full  view  of  all  the  village. 

"  Why,  if  our  Johnny  ha'n't  a-put  up  a  mommet," 
cried  Grammer  in  great  delight.  "  Now,  do  let's 
goo  an'  tell  his  Girt-gran-dadder." 

But  the  sleepy  old  man  scarcely  understood, 
for  he  apprehensively  replied  : — 

"  Drat  the  bwoy,  then.  Have  hur  now?"  And 
then,  with  an  ever-vivid  recollection  of  a  youth 
when  folly  was  still  extant,  he  added,  "There, 
bwoys  must  be  bwoys — must  be  bwoys." 

Throughout  that  day,  no  Sandboy  went  in  or 
out  of  the  cottage  door  without  yielding  to  an 
irresistible  impulse  to  tell  Girt-gran-dadder,  so  that 
the  matter  became  serious,  and  the  old  man  stayed 
awake  constantly  muttering  : — 

"  Bless  my  heart !  Drat  the  bwoy  !  Dear,  dear 
then  1  " 

Finding  the  information  imperfectly  compre- 
hended, they  made  him  stand  up,  and  pointed  out 
the  scarecrow  with  praiseworthy  persistence.      But 

7 


98  "  Love  and  Quiet  Life  " 

the  patriarch,  looking  in  a  wrong  direction,  only 
blinked  and  quavered,  "  Mind  !  his  father  sha'n't 
beat  un  for  it — sha'n't  beat  un  for  it.     No,  no  I " 

John  Sandboy  came  home  at  dark  with  a  nitch 
of  sticks  to  his  back,  and  the  family  was  sitting 
round  a  blazing  fire  when  Johnny  lifted  the  latch 
that  night.  Everybody  bubbled  over  with  praise, 
and  his  mother  put  an  extra  "  tatie  "  in  his  "  tay- 
saacer."  But  the  old  man,  with  a  dim  idea  of 
affording  protection,  beckoned  the  child  to  stand 
between  his  knees. 

"  What  have  'ee  a-bin  up  to  ?  "  he  whispered 
shyly. 

"I've  a- made  a  vine  mommet,  Girt-gran- 
dadder." 

"  Eh  ?     Mommet  ?  " 

It  was  wonderful  sometimes  how  well  the 
patriarch  could  hear. 

"Ay.     A  mommet,  Girt-gran-dadder." 

A  magic  of  reminiscence  lingered  in  the  word. 
The  old  man's  features  relaxed  into  a  grin,  and 
then  he  chuckled  as  if  in  recollection  of  the  fool. 

But  Johnny  did  not  laugh.  In  spite  of  success 
and  popularity  with  its  attendant  potato,  the  soul 
within  that  little  smock  remained  unsatisfied. 
The  bright  joy  begotten  of  this  first  attempt  at 
creative  art  faded  beneath  a  clearer  perception  of 
the  imperfection  of  the  creation. 


"  Chee-halo  !     Halo  ! 


99 


"  But,  Girt-gran-daddcr,  he  ha'n't  a-got  noo 
head." 

The  old  man  nodded  from  doubt  and  palsy. 
He  stared  at  the  blazing  sticks  and  said  nothing ; 
but  perhaps,  like  many  a  silent  person,  thought  the 
more. 

On  the  following  day  at  noon,  the  inhabitants  of 
Sutton  could  scarcely  believe  their  eyes.  For  up- 
wards of  two  years  Girt-gran-dadder  had  never 
passed  beyond  the  garden-hatch,  never  been  to 
church,  nor  even  walked  so  far  as  the  White 
Hart.  Now  Mrs.  Carew,  peering  out  of  her  front 
window,  saw  the  old  man  travelling  down  the 
street  on  his  tottering  legs  and  two  sticks,  with 
truly  marvellous  expedition.  Once  he  looked 
back  as  if  in  dread  of  pursuit — then  on  again  with 
renewed  vigour.  Abraham  Bartlett,  standing  on 
the  causeway,  shouted  after  him  in  vain.  The  old 
man  was  as  deaf  as  an  adder  that  morning.  But 
he  knew  well  enough  where  he  was  going,  and 
turned  into  the  drang-way  with  quite  unseemly 
haste  for  a  man  of  his  years.  As  Mrs.  Culliford 
afterwards  said  to  Mrs.  Carew,  "An'  I  had  but  jus' 
a-got  over  stile  when  I  clapped  eyes  on  the  old 
man  ;  an'  really  to  see  how  he  was  a-putten  his 
best  foot  avore  up  thik  lane,  an'  one  lag  in  the 
grave  too,  so  to  speak,  did  put  me  all  to  a  trem'le. 
For   I  couldn'  think  what    thought   he    might   ha' 


loo  "Love  and  Quiet  Life" 

got  in  the  silly  old  head  o'  un.  But  he  oped  the 
gate  into  corn-ground,  an'  I  thought  to  myself, 
'There's  never  a  pit,  is  there?'  An'  I  thought 
'  No,'  and  then  I  walked  on." 

The  sun  had  passed  over  the  copse  when 
Johnny  in  his  hut  of  hurdles  looked  up  from  his  bit 
o'  nunch.  A  solitary  rook  croaked  discontentedly 
from  the  ash  tree  ;  and  there  in  the  middle  of  the 
field  stood  Girt-gran-dadder,  face  to  face  with  the 
mommet !  The  mommet  was  leaning  aslant 
toward  the  old  man,  the  old  man  bent  forward 
toward  the  mommet,  and  they  looked  like  a 
couple  of  friends,  each  lamenting  the  other's 
ailments. 

The  boy  ran  eagerly  across  the  field. 

The  old  man  having  by  this  time  recovered 
breath,  spoke  like  an  oracle. 

"  Ay,  bwoy.  Wi'  sich  a  vine  hat  there's  noo 
call  vor  a  head — noo  call  vor  a  head." 

And  having  delivered  this  summary  of  a 
century's  experience,  the  old  heathen  turned  to 
undertake  his  difficult  homeward  walk. 

The  rook  on  the  ash  tree  spread  his  glossy 
wings  to  the  sunshine,  and  dropped  into  the 
distant  corner  of  the  field. 

"  Chce  ha-lo  !     Ha-lo  !  Ha-lo  ! 

Clicc  ha-lo  :     Ha-lo-loy  ! " 


CHAPTER  X 

AN    OLD    HYMN    AND    A    NEW    BOOK 

An  echo  of  the  distant  cry  of  "Church  in  danger" 
had  indeed  been  heard  in  Sutton,  but  without 
awakening  any  hvely  fear  or  apprehension. 
Seated  on  the  uppinstock  by  the  Manor  Farm 
gate,  or  standing  by  the  porch  of  the  White 
Hart,  Tranter  Coombs  had  discoursed  wisely  and 
at  length  upon  the  evils  of  Catholic  Emancipation, 
and  the  consequent  downfall  of  the  English  nation. 
Sutton  swallowed  these  predictions  with  open- 
mouthed  wonder.  Mr.  John  Culliford  did  not  hold 
with  this-here  pandering  to  Popery.  But  all  such 
considerations  sank  into  insignificance  in  com- 
parison with  the  prophecies  in  that  year's  almanac. 
The  growth  of  Popery  and  decline  of  the  British 
constitution  are  of  little  importance  when  you 
consider  the  weather  and  the  practical  import  of 
the  waxing  and  waning  of  the  moon. 

But  poor  old  parson  was  alive  in  those  days,  and 
Sutton  was  a  happy  place.  A  hearty  old  bachelor 
and  not  over  particular  about  tithe,  once  a  year,  as 
soon  as  convenient  after  harvest-home,  he  invited 


I02         "  Love  and  Quiet  Life" 

the  village  worthies  to  dinner — a  boiled  leg  of  mut- 
ton and  turnips,  and  after  that  a  bowl  of  punch. 
It  was  the  most  important  religious  ceremony  of 
the  year.  For  they  talked  about  what  they  were 
going  to  do,  please  God,  and  which  grounds  they 
allotted  to  put  to  wheat,  and  what  was  fair  to  pay. 
And  so  they  agreed,  and  staggered  home  in  the 
dark  or  the  moonlight  very  well  satisfied  with  each 
other.  Thus  in  Sutton  never  a  sheaf  was  paid  in 
kind,  and  the  parsonage  possessed  neither  a  barn 
nor  a  granary. 

Then  think  of  Abraham  Bartlett.  What  an 
admirable  clerk !  Not  for  twenty  miles  round 
could  be  found  a  parish  officer  so  experienced,  so 
efficient,  and  so  intelligent.  He  was  sexton  as  well 
as  clerk.  But  no  matter  what  he  was  doing — 
whether  opening  a  door  when  the  air  was  sultry, 
shutting  a  window  when  the  rain  beat  in,  clouting 
the  head  of  a  boy  who  surreptitiously  conveyed 
an  apple  to  his  mouth  under  the  cloak  of  prayer, 
or  awakening  a  worshipper  prematurely  overtaken 
by  drowsiness — never  had  Abraham  been  known 
to  lose  his  presence  of  mind  or  omit  one  single 
response. 

So  implicitly  could  the  parish  trust  him  thai 
they  did  not  need  to  answer  for  themselves.  From 
the  gloom  beneath  the  gallery,  or  passing  under 
the  slanting  shaft  of  sunlight  falling  from  the  south 


An  Old   Hymn  and  a  New  Book  103 

windows,  wherever  Abraham  might  happen  to  be, 
just  in  the  nick  of  time  joined  in  his  sonorous  bass 
chanting  the  appropriate  "  Amen." 

"You  do  drop  your  Amens  about  church  pretty, 
well,"  said    Mr.  John    Culliford  one  day   as   they 
walked  up  the  street  together. 

"Ay!"  replied  Abraham,  frankly  accepting  the 
compliment,  but  modestly  disclaiming  superior 
talent.  "  'Tes  all  use,  Mr.  Culliford.  'Tes  all  use, 
Zir." 

During  the  interval  of  repose  occupied  by  the 
sermon,  of  an  autumn  morning  when  the  door  was 
open  wide,  Abraham  used  to  step  into  the  church- 
yard, and  seat  himself  upon  a  gravestone.  From 
this  advantageous  position  he  could  gaze  upon  his 
own  homestead  with  the  square  orchard  running 
up  the  hill-side.  No  rascally  Upton  hobbledehoy, 
half  man  and  half  boy,  was  ever  known  to  break 
the  Sabbath  by  stealing  the  apples  of  Abraham 
Bartlett.  Also  through  the  window  he  could  hear 
the  parson's  voice,  soothing  and  softly  indistinct. 
It  was  impossible  to  catch  the  words.  Yet  such 
the  unerring  instinct  of  this  great  man,  he  had 
never  failed  to  walk  on  tiptoe  up  the  nave  in  full 
time  for  the  final  hymn. 

Sutton  did  not  deliglit  in  change,  and  when 
everything  was  so  eminently  satisfactory,  not  to 
leave  well  alone  seemed  to  Mr.  John  Culliford  little 


I04  "Love  and  Quiet  Life" 

short  of  crime.  The  first  six  weeks  of  Mr.  Perci- 
val's  incumbency  passed  in  perfect  quietude. 
Every  one  was  silently  respectful,  and  he  had 
neither  suspicion   nor   foreboding   of  ill-will. 

Then  seeing  there  was  a  goodish  bite  of  grass  in 
the  churchyard,  by  virtue  of  a  privilege  exercised 
for  years,  Abraham  Bartlett  turned  in  three  calves, 
four  little  heifers,  a  sow  and  ten  little  pigs  to  eat  it 
down.  A  ragged-looking  lot  of  beasts  of  all  sizes, 
they  trampled  over  the  graves,  rubbed  themselves 
against  the  tombstones,  and  sheltered  from  in- 
clement weather  in  the  porch.  To  judge  by  its 
various  and  nondescript  population,  the  little 
churchyard  might  have  been  the  village  pound. 

Thus  commenced  that  feud  between  the  parson 
and  the  parish  which,  although  of  brief  continu- 
ance, stirred  the  soul  of  Sutton  to  its  profoundest 
depths. 

Mr.  Percival,  picking  his  way  between  the 
puddles  on  the  well-worn  causeway  stones,  looked 
up  to  find  a  white-faced  heifer  placidly  gazing  at 
him  over  the  low  churchyard  wall.  He  stopped  to 
return  the  compliment  and  to  look  at  the  cow. 
Then  he  became  aware  of  the  herd,  noticed  the 
deep  hoof-marks  on  the  sodden  turf,  and  the 
presence  of  the  swine.  Perhaps  the  fence  dividing 
the  graveyard  from  the  adjacent  field  might  be  in 
disrepair.     But  no !     He  walked  around  on  a  tour 


An  Old  Hymn  and  a  New  Book  105 

of  careful  inspection  without  finding  any  sufficient 
gap.     So  he  went  to  make  inquiries  of  the  sexton. 

Abraham  Bartlett,  good,  industrious  man,  was 
that  morning  at  home.  A  gale,  which  drove 
Johnny  to  his  hut  of  hurdles,  had  stripped  the 
thatch  from  one  side  of  a  barley-mow  in  his  barton, 
and  Abraham  was  mounted  on  the  stack  laying  a 
few  hurdles  on  the  thatch  as  a  temporary  ex- 
pedient. From  this  commanding  position  he 
caught  sight  of  the  parson  walking  towards  his 
house. 

As  Mr.  Percival  came  into  the  barton  Abraham 
prepared  to  descend. 

"  Don't  trouble  to  come  down,  Mr,  Bartlett.  I 
only  wanted  to  ask  a  question." 

To  the  end  of  his  life  Abraham  never  tired  of 
affirming  that  up  to  that  time  he  had  felt  no  ill-will 
towards  Mr.  Percival.  As  a  lawfully  appointed 
double-barrelled  parish  officer,  with  a  freehold  both 
in  sextonship  and  clerkship,  the  bent  of  Abraham's 
mind  was  to  uphold  authority  and  support  the 
Church.  He  lent  no  ear  to  the  parish  gossip,  nor 
suffered  any  deep  fear  of  Popery,  so  long  as  it 
pleased  God  to  spare  him  to  be  parish  clerk.  But 
no  sooner  did  Abraham  set  eyes  on  Mr.  Percival 
that  morning,  than  he  detected  something  unsound 
and  revolutionary.  "  He  could  zee,"  he  said,  "  that 
the   man  had  a-comed  wi'  zomethen   in  the  head 


io6  "Love  and  Quiet  Life" 

o'  un."  This  perception  afterwards  deeply  in- 
fluenced Abraham's  opinion  in  the  matter  of  the 
new  hymn-book. 

"  Don't  trouble.  What  cattle  are  those  in  the 
churchyard  ?  " 

'"Tes  all  right,  Zir.  'Tes  only  a  few  young 
stock  I  put  there  myself" 

Although  not  approving  of  the  inquisitiveness 
of  the  question,  Abraham's  tone  was  deferential, 
but  his  voice  was  loud,  and  as  the  mow-barton  lay 
against  the  road,  he  could  be  heard  in  the  parish 
almost  as  clearly  as  when  he  gave  the  responses 
in  church.  Little  Mrs.  Carew,  ever  alert,  stealthily 
opened  her  front  door  on  the  opposite  side  of  the 
street,  and  popped  out  into  the  porch. 

"  They  make  the  place  untidy,"  said  the  parson. 
"  I  do  not  like  to  see  animals  in  the  graveyard." 

"  I  do  take  'em  out  a  Zaturday  night.  An' 
I  never  didn'  hear  no  complaint,"  interposed 
Abraham  doggedly. 

"  They  make  the  paths  dirty,"  said  the  parson. 
"  They   be  as   God    made  'em,"  responded  the 
clerk. 

The  parson  began  to  stand  upon  his  dignity. 
"  They  must  be  removed   as  soon  as  you  can 
fetch   them  away.     I  do  not  know  that  I  should 
object  to  a  few  sheep  just  to  eat  off  the  grass — 
but  nothing  else,  Bartlett,  nothing  else." 


An  Old   Hymn  and  a  New  Book  107 

"  But  the  clerk  o'  Zutton  have  a'ways  a-had  the 
kip  o'  the  chichyard.  'Tes  the  custom  o'  the 
place.  Hard  upon  thirty  year  have  I  a-bin  clerk 
o'  Zutton,  an'  a'ways  a  God-fearing  man,  an'  never 
sick  nor  sorry,  but  a'ways  to  my  church,  an'  never 
missed  a  Zunday  since  I  virst  said  '  Amen '  to 
wold  parson  Dangerfield,  'pon  Motheren-Zunday 
in  the  year  one " 

Unable  to  cope  with  this  torrent  of  words,  and 
having  clearly  expressed  his  determination,  Mr. 
Percival  hurried  up  the  street  The  sound  of 
voices  had  brought  Josiah  Clarke  to  the  bottom 
of  the  orchard  abutting  upon  Abraham's  mow- 
barton.  The  Sandboys  also  had  hurried  down  to 
the  hatch,  and  by  good-hap  just  then  Mr.  John 
Culliford  came  ambling  by  on  his  cob.  So  the 
parish  was  opportunely  gathered  in  impromptu 
committee. 

Abraham  turned  to  drive  a  spar  into  the  thatch. 

"  Ay  !  An'  my  vather  avore  me  thirty  year, 
an'  never  a  word  zaid " 

"  Nine-an'-twenty  year  by  the  tombstone,  werden 
it?"  interposed  Josiah  from  over  the  hedge  "An' 
'eet  you  mid  zay  thirty,  to  be  zure,  in  a  manner  o' 
speaken." 

"  What  is  it  ?  What  is  it,  Abraham  Bartlett  ?  " 
cried  Mr.  John  Culliford,  reining  in  his  cob. 

In   his    growing   excitement    Abraham    waxed 


io8  *•  Love  and  Quiet  Life  '* 

oratorical.  Time-honoured  similes  and  tropes  fell 
from  his  lips  without  effort,  like  acorns  from  an 
autumn  oak  agitated  by  the  east  wind.  He  did 
not  invent,  but  inherited  these  wondrous  figures  of 
speech,  which  he  held  in  common  with  all  the 
country-side. 

"  Why,  he  walked  up  street  so  big  as  a  house, 
an'  comed  in  barton  so  straight  as  a  arrow.  An' 
he  says,  *  Don't  trouble,  Mr.  Bartlett,'  zays  he,  so 
zoft  as  silk,  '  but  whose  beastezes  be  they  in 
chichyard  ? '  A  ,  I  zeed  the  man  had  a  maggot 
in  the  head  o'  jn  ;  but  I  never  thought  no  more'n 
the  dead,  a-  I  zaid  to  once  there  right,  '  'Tes  so 
right  as  rain,  Zir,'  zes  I,  '  'Tes  my  beastezes  sure 
'nough,  that's  whose  'tes.'  An'  he  turned  'pon  I 
like  a  roaren  lion,  an'  he  zaid,  '  Take  'em  away,' 
so  he  zaid,  '  Take  'em  away.  I  'oon't  have  no 
beastezes  in  chichyard.'  An'  avore  I  could  turn 
roun'  an' catch  hold  o'  hurdle  to  c'llect  my  thoughts, 
he'd  a-turned  tail  so  shuttle  as  a  rabbit,  an'  nipt 
off  down  street  's  if  the  church  had  a-bin  a-vire." 

"  He  never  ha'n't  a-breathed  a  word  to  the 
churchwarden,"  cried  Mr.  John  Culliford  in- 
dignantly. 

"  He  do  want  to  take  it  all  into  his  own  ban's. 
That's  what  'tes  so  sure  as  the  light.  But  he  ca'n't 
do  it.  He  ca'n't  do  it  by  law,  you  mid  depen,'  Mr. 
John  Culliford.      Why,  'tes  up  zixty  year   we've 


An  Old  Hymn  and  a  New  Book  109 

a-had  the  kip  o'  the  chichyard  in  our  family,  an' 
he  ca'n't  come  an'  turn  out  my  beastezes  by  word 
o'  mouth,  n'eet  put  'em  unbeknowed  in  poun'  so 
long  as  I  be  the  hayward.  Tidden  right — an' 
tidden  reason.  Noo  doubt  't  vver  a-tookt  in  in  th' 
app'intment.  Why,  ther's  noo  man  'pon  earth  do 
dare  to  meddle  wi'  a  parish  clerk.  A  bishop  don't 
dare  to  do  it.  He's  so  good  as  a  pa'son  there. 
Once  a-put  in  you  ca'n't  move  un.  You  ca'n't 
make  no  change " 

"  We  don't  want  no  change  to  Zutton.  An' 
what's  all  this  here  talk  about  a  new  hymn-book  ? 
We  don't  want  no  new  hymn-book.  I  tell  ee  what 
'tes,  he's  nothen  but  a  bwoy.  He  ha'n't  zeed 
enough  o'  the  wordle  to  understan'  Zutton.  He 
ha'n't  a-got  age  enough  vor  volk  a  bit  staid  an' 
thoughtful.  'Tes  all  this  here  change  is  the  ruina- 
tion o'  theas  country  ;  an'  I  ben't  a-gwain  to  ope 
my  mouth  out  o'  a  new  hymn-book,  so  long  as 
my  name's  John  Culliford." 

"  An'  I'll  be  danged  then  if  I  do  flutey  out  o' 
un,"  cried  Josiah  from  over  the  hedge. 

"  Why,  he've  a-bespoke  a  score  to  put  about 
church  for  next  Zunday.  An'  he's  a-minded  to 
choose  the  hymns  hiszelf,"  explained  Abraham. 

"  Ay,  an'  bring  in  Popery  atwixt  the  two  forrels 
o'  'em  avore  you  do  know  where  you  be." 

Then  Mr.  Culliford,  touching  up  his  cob  with 


no  "Love  and  Quiet  Life" 

his  ground-ash  stick,  rode  slowly  off  to  his  arable 
field.  Josiah  went  back  into  his  orchard,  Abraham 
turned  to  his  thatching,  and  the  Sandboys,  entitled 
by  their  social  position  to  listen  but  not  to  talk, 
dispersed  on  their  various  errands.  For  Sutton 
was  slowly  industrious  in  those  days,  and  reserved 
prolonged  conversation  for  moments  of  leisure 
over  the  wood  fire  and  cider-cup.  But  the  repug- 
nance to  this  startling  innovation  did  not  decrease, 
Sutton  people  possessed  a  quaint  shrewdness 
which  perceived  the  impregnability  of  their  posi- 
tion. They  need  not  sing  ;  for  as  Mrs.  Culliford 
said  to  Mrs.  Carew,  "  You  mid  lead  a  horse  to  the 
water,  but  no  power  'pon  earth  can  make  un  drink." 
Mr.  Percival,  recognising  the  danger  of  argu- 
ment, went  away  fully  aware  that  Abraham  might 
give  him  trouble.  But  he  quickly  dismissed  the 
thought.  Conscious  of  the  lofty  nature  of  his 
reforms,  he  could  not  doubt  that  they  would  re- 
commend themselves  to  public  opinion.  As  for 
Abraham,  of  course  the  removal  of  the  cattle 
must  be  insisted  upon,  but  it  would  be  easy  after- 
wards to  make  that  right.  The  value  of  the 
churchyard  keep  could  be  estimated.  It  lay 
within  the  range  of  measurement  and  arithmetic, 
and  Mr.  Percival  felt  quite  prepared  to  pay  a  trifle 
for  the  preservation  of  the  perfect  unanimity  and 
peace  of  Sutton. 


An  Old  Hymn  and  a  New  Book    hi 

The  conversation  took  place  on  Tuesday.  In 
the  evening  the  cattle  were  still  gazing  over  the 
wall.  However,  no  great  time  had  elapsed.  Mr. 
Percival  himself  had  said,  "  as  soon  as  you  can,"  a 
phrase  admitting  of  considerable  latitude  of  inter- 
pretation. 

On  the  Wednesday  Tranter  Coombs  delivered 
the  new  hymn-books,  and  that  was  a  diversion. 

On  Thursday  the  heifers  were  still  thei^e.  So 
was  the  sow  with  her  ten  little  pigs. 

On  Friday  Mr.  Percival  reflected  that  Abraham 
had  himself  mentioned  Saturday  as  the  regular 
date  for  removal.  No  doubt  he  would  then  drive 
them  away  never  to  return.  But  as  it  seemed  in- 
advisable to  meet  Abraham  without  mention  of 
the  matter,  and  dangerous  to  prematurely  re-open 
it,  Mr.  Percival  went  into  the  church,  himself  dis- 
tributed the  hymn-books,  in  the  old  high-backed 
pews  and  gallery,  selected  with  care  familiar  hymns 
contained  in  both  books,  and  made  a  careful  note 
'^f  the  numbers. 

'"^n  Saturday  he  went  to  inform  Josiah  Clarke. 

There  is  a  melancholy  delicacy  and  a  distinction 
about  a  flute,  even  when  played  in  tune,  which 
Josiah's  never  was.  The  only  other  instrument  in 
the  choir  was  a  bassoon  played  by  John  Sandboy, 
much  admired  in  Sutton,  and  called  the  "  ho'se's 
lag."     Josiah  therefore  was  clearly  the  man  to  call 


[12  "Love  and  Quiet  Life" 

upon  ;  but  Mr.  Percival  could  not  have  n:iade  a 
more  unfortunate  choice.  Abraham  could  not 
have  kept  silence  in  the  presence  of  the  new  book  ; 
but  Josiah,  in  spite  of  his  frank,  wide-open  eyes, 
was  never  in  his  life  known  to  impart  information. 

"  Good  afternoon,  Mr.  Clarke." 

"  I  hope  I  do  zee  you  well,  Zir,"  said  Josiah. 

"  Yes,  thank  you.  I  want  to  substitute  this  new 
collection  of  hymns,"  said  Mr.  Percival. 

"  Oh !  " 

"  I  hope  the  congregation  will  be  pleased  with 
them.  I  have  brought  the  numbers  of  those 
selected  for  to-morrow.  I  think  you  know  them 
all." 

"  Ay,  sure  !  "  nodded  Josiah. 

"  They  are  all  in  the  old  book." 

"  I  suppose  we  mid  zing  'em  out  o'  the  wold 
book,  if  we  be  a-minded." 

"  Well,  we  must  begin  at  some  time,"  laughed 
the  parson.  "  So  perhaps  you'll  kindly  put  up 
these  numbers.  It  is  a  beautiful  book,  retaining 
all  the  best  of  the  old  hymns,  with  some  new." 

"Well  done!  "  said  Josiah. 

The  parson  mistook  the  words  for  approval ; 
but  this  was  only  Josiah's  way  of  expressing  sur- 
prise. When  he  read  in  the  almanac  of  predicted 
earthquakes,  or  that  plagues  and  wars  and  ex- 
cessive  rains  would  bring  ruin  upon  his  country 


An  Old  Hymn  and  a  New  Book  113 

before  the  year  was  out,  he  always  said,  "  Well 
done  !  "  in  precisely  the  same  tone  of  voice.  Now 
he  looked  at  the  new  book,  and  listened  to  its 
praises  with  all  the  simplicity  of  a  child.  Nobody 
would  have  suspected  that  those  parted  lips  could 
ever  refuse  to  "  flutey,"  So  Mr.  Percival  went 
home  quite  contented,  rather  wishing  that  Josiah 
was  clerk.     And  the  following  day  was  Sunday. 

Earlier  than  usual  the  parish  clustered  round  the 
porch.  The  morning  was  not  salubrious,  and 
Abraham's  beasts,  still  there,  either  from  shyness 
or  for  shelter,  huddled  away  in  a  distant  corner  of 
the  churchyard.  Everybody  recognised  the  near 
approach  of  a  crisis,  but  what  form  it  might  assume 
was  a  matter  of  opinion.  Some  feared  Mr.  Per- 
cival would  not  notice  the  beasts.  Others  argued 
that  Abraham  had  the  law  upon  his  side.  But  all 
felt  "  cur'ous  like  to  zee  how  pa'son  ud  look." 

This  expression  touched  the  climax  of  human 
interest  in  Sutton. 

The  parson  passed  quickly  up  the  path  and 
entered  the  church.  The  parish  dropped  in  be- 
hind him  and  settled  into  their  seats. 

A  spirit  of  deeper  devotion  seemed  to  preside 
that  morning  over  the  earlier  part  of  ♦"'€  service. 
Abraham  did  not  move  from  his  place,  .  nd  Mr. 
John  Culliford  conscientiously  joined  in  all  the  re- 
sponses.    The  flute  and  bassoon  surpassed  them- 

8 


114         "Love  and  Quiet  Life" 

selves  and  each  other,  and  the  Gloria  at  the  end 
of  each  psalm  was  a  truly  wonderful  perform- 
ance. 

When  the  time  to  sing  the  first  hymn  arrived, 
Mr.  Fercival  announced  that  in  future  the  new 
book  distributed  amongst  the  pews  was  to  be  used; 
and  the  worshippers  as  usual  turned  slowly  to  the 
west  and  waited. 

But  no  one  in  the  gallery  moved.  No  hand 
appeared  above  the  rail  to  place  the  numbers  on 
the  stand,  and  not  the  slightest  rustle  of  anticipa- 
tion fluttered  the  green  curtain. 

There  was  something  painfully  solemn  in  this 
absence  of  whispered  discussion,  and  the  flute 
made  no  attempt  whatever  at  the  preliminary  and 
sometimes  prolonged  effort  to  tune  itself  to  the 
bassoon,  which  always  cheered  the  hearts  of  the 
congregation. 

The  parson  paused  in  perplexity.  It  seemed 
evident  that  something  had  gone  amiss.  Perhaps 
Josiah  had  mislaid  or  forgotten  the  paper  upon 
which  the  instructions  had  been  pencilled.  Mr. 
Percival  waited  at  least  two  minutes,  and  then 
gave  out  the  hymn. 

But  nothing  happened.  The  church  remained 
as  silent  as  the  grave  ;  and  presently  he  knelt 
down  to  proceed  with  the  service. 

"  Almighty  and  everlasting " 


An  Old  HyxMN  and  a  New  Book  115 

Suddenly  from  behind  him  in  the  chancel  burst 
forth  the  lusty  voice  of  Mr.  John  Culliford, — 

"  Let  us  sing  to  the  praise  an'  glory  o'  God— the 
wold  hundurdth." 

At  once  everything  was  changed.  The  flute 
squeaked  with  excitement,  the  bassoon  groaned, 
and  the  congregation  sang  with  all  their  lungs,  not 
only  in  praise,  but  triumph. 


CHAPTER    XI 

ON   CHARITY,    WITH  A    DIGRESSION  INTO    LOVE 

In  the  refinement  of  his  sensibility,  and  having 
himself  drunk  the  cup  of  experience  not  unmixed 
with  sorrow,  James  Burt  felt  and  expressed  to 
Marion  a  genuine  sympathy  with  the  young 
clergyman.  For  some  little  time  they  did  not 
meet  him.  But  one  winter  morning,  on  the  road 
between  the  willow  trees  at  the  foot  of  the  bill, 
Mr,  Percival,  striding  through  the  mud,  overtook 
them  returning  from  their  usual  walk.  His  face 
was  thinner,  and  bore  traces  of  anxiety.  Already 
in  the  minds  of  young  Churchmen  was  fermenting 
a  spirit  of  discontent  with  existing  conditions — 
a  restlessness  which  a  few  years  later  assumed 
form  in  the  movement  known  as  Tractarianism. 
That  he  took  his  troubles  to  heart  was  evident,  and 
Marion's  quick  ear  detected  an  unexpected  reserve 
in  the  manner  of  his  greeting.  But  as  they  walked 
along  together  between  the  trees,  it  quickly  thawed 
beneath  her  father's  sympathy. 

"  The  thing   that    worries    me,"    explained   Mr. 
Percival,  "is  the  absurdity  of  the  whole  matter,  and 

ii6 


Charity,  with  a  Digression  into  Love  117 

a  humiliating  feeling  that  were  I  an  outsider,  I 
should  laugh.  I  would  not  for  the  world  alter 
anything  of  importance  to  the  people.  The  flute 
and  the  bassoon  I  hold  as  sacred,  and  neither 
would  I  profane  by  a  touch.  But  these  old  hymns, 
cumbrous  paraphrases  of  the  Psalms,  sometimes 
almost  grotesque,  and  always  too  long  for  public 
worship— how  can  people  be  so  wedded  to  old  ways 
as  to  refuse  to  sing  even  an  old  hymn  from  a  new 
book  ?  " 

By  an  easy  step  they  passed  on  to  a  discussion 
on  the  dearth  of  good  hymns. 

"They  so  often  lack  the  literary  quality," 
reflected  the  older  man  ;  "  Prompted  by  piety,  and 
piety  cannot  make  a  poet.  Sometimes  I  think  if 
poor  Kirke  White  had  been  spared " 

He  stopped,  laid  a  thin  white  hand  upon  the 
sleeve  of  the  clergyman,  and  pointing  with  his 
finger  across  the  moor,  repeated  the  lines  : — 

*'  When  marshalled  on  the  nightly  plain 
The  glittering  host  bestud  the  sky, 
One  star  alone " 

His  eye  brightened.  He  stood  erect  and  glanced 
at  the  heavy  leaden  sky,  as  if  night  were  glittering 
in  all  its  splendour,  and  Sirius  shining  forth  in  a 
solitude  of  incomparable  excellence.  He  recited 
the  poem  to  the  end,  before  they  proceeded  on 
their  way.     The  warmth  of  a  fresh  human  inter- 


ii8  "Love  axd  Ouiet  Life" 

course  brongfat  a  glow  into  his  heart,  and  quickened 
enthusiasms  which  had  long  lain  dormant  Again 
and  again,  after  a  few  steps,  he  arrested  his 
companion  to  call  attention  to  some  line  of  peculiar 
sweetness,  or  to  remark  upon  the  purit>-  of  a  verse. 
Sometimes  to  the  cadence  of  a  measure  he  gently 
vraved  his  hand.  To  a  casual  obser\er,  if  any 
watched  from  the  hill-side,  his  movements  must 
have  appeared  humorous — even  comic  and  gro- 
te    ue  :   but  to   Marion    this   sudden  outburst  of 

J.  ' 

m  Aispected  rapture  sounded  strangely  pathetic 
It  moved  her  to  pit)'  for  the  loneliness  of  his  life. 

When  they  reached  the  house,  with  an  insistence 
which  overcame  hesitation,  he  invited  Mr.  Percival 
to  enter.  In  the  study  a  fire  was  burning  brightly, 
glistening  upon  the  rows  of  brass- headed  nails 
which  studded  the  horse-hair  chairs.  An  open 
volume  lay  upon  the  table.  Ihey  sat  down  and 
talked  of  ^schyius,  and  the  fortitude  of  Prome- 
theus chained  to  the  rock  for  his  love  toward  men. 
But  Mr.  Burt  was  not  at  ease  Once  he  rose  from 
his  seat,  crossed  to  his  writing-desk,  stood  a 
moment  in  hesitation,  as  if  seeking  something  he 
could  not  find,  and  then  returned  to  the  fireside. 
His  enthusiasm  had  subsided.  He  seemed  again 
to  have  sunk  into  despondency,  to  be  infirm  of 
purpose  as  of  old.  Yet  he  was  restless,  and  kept 
moving  in  his  chair. 


CiLUUTi',  w^TH  A  Digression  into  Love  119 

"  Marion,  ray  dear,  I  think  the  door  is  open  ;  the 
lock  does  not  always  catch." 

The  girl  crossed  the  room  ;  and  as  if  gathering 
resolution  from  her  movement,  he  leaned  fon\-ard 
toward  Mr.  Percival  and  said,  "  I  have  myself— of 
late  years — ah — been  engaged  upon  a  work,  which 
daily  nears  completion " 

He  stopped  ;  yet  it  was  quite  clear  that  all  had 
not  been  said. 

"  A  poem,  Mr.  Burt  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Percival. 

"  Xo,"  he  slowly  continued.  ''  Even  had  I  the 
power,  my  purpose  scarcely  admitted  of  presenta- 
tion in  poetic  form.  But  I  have  re-cast  and 
re-written  my  work  many  times.  At  first  it  was  a 
book  of  considerable — nay,  formidable  dimensions. 
I  fancied  the  ordinarv  reader  mi^ht  not  willinglv 
undertake  so  arduous  a  task.  After  much  thought 
and  judicious  pruning,  I  reconstructed  the  sub- 
ject matter  in  a  series  of  tracts.  But  again  I 
reflected,  that  in  these  days,  when  fiction  is 
abundant,  even  serious  matters  require  a  certain 
lightness  of  treatment.  Therefore  I  have  since 
thrown  each  tract  into  the  form  of  a  Socratic 
dialogue.  I  will  show  you  one,  if  I  can  put  my 
hand  upon  it — yes,  here  it  is  '  Charity.'  " 

He  drew  his  chair  to  the  table,  holding  the 
sheet  to  catch  the  light  which  shone  also  on  his 
silvery  head.     Then  he  read,  and  read,  with  ever- 


I20  "Love  and  Quiet  Life" 

increasing  eagerness.  The  accumulated  pathos  of 
those  years  of  patient  labour  saddened  the  girl's 
heart.  She  understood  the  lingering  hope,  the 
longing  for  sympathy,  never  openly  expressed,  but 
now  kindling  into  flame  in  the  presence  of  this  new 
listener.  Mr.  Percival  sat  quite  still.  He  had  only 
come  for  one  minute,  and  yet  he  stayed.  She 
watched  her  father's  growing  delight,  and  was 
grateful. 

The  reading  was  over.  The  visitor  warmly 
expressed  his  appreciation,  and  rose  to  depart- 
"You  must  let  me  come  again,  and  continue  our 
conversation,"  he  said  pleasantly. 

The  face  of  James  Burt  became  radiant  with 
delight.  Yet  there  was  sadness  in  his  voice  as  he 
presently  said  : — 

"Years  ago  I  should  have  thought  of  publication 
but  now "  He  paused,  as  if  to  invite  en- 
couragement. 

Mr.  Percival  had  turned  to  bid  Marion  good-bye. 
"  That  is  a  mystery  of  which  I  understand  no- 
thing," he  admitted. 

She  felt  the  friendliness  in  his  tone,  and  was  glad. 
And  yet  it  all  seemed  so  sad. 

"  We  will  walk  across  to  Mr.  Culliford's  this 
afternoon,  and  inquire  whether  he  is  going  to 
Bridgetown  to-morrow,"  said  Mr.  Burt.     Upon  the 


Charity,  with  a  Digression  into  Love  121 

suggestion  of  Mr.  Hensley,  Mr.  Culliford  had  once 
driven  him  to  town ;  but  only  on  one  occasion  had 
Marion  stood  a  visitor  before  a  neighbour's  door. 

As  before,  Mr.  Culliford  opened  it  himself. 
"  Come  in.  Come  in,"  he  cried  lustily.  "  Come  in 
both  o'  ee,  out  o'  the  win',  an'  warm  your  hearts." 

Mr.  John  CuUiford's  humours  were  as  variable 
as  the  British  climate.  To  see  him  in  shirt  sleeves 
on  a  warm  summer  day,  steadily  pursuing  his  avo- 
cation, or  listening  to  the  gossip  of  Tranter  Coombs, 
you  would  suppose  that  no  excitement  could  ruffle 
his  placid  brow.  To  see  him  of  an  autumn  even- 
ing, sitting  reflective  on  a  wall  or  rail,  turning  the 
leaves  of  his  almanac  with  his  moistened  thumb,  to 
ascertain  the  phases  of  the  moon  and  the  most 
propitious  moment  to  put  in  a  crop,  you  would 
believe  that  nothing  on  earth  could  induce  him  to 
condescend  from  this  giddy  height  of  pure  reason. 
But  beside  the  winter  hearth  Mr.  John  Culliford 
shone  at  his  best. 

"  Come  in.  Come  in.  Zit  down.  Draw  up  your 
chair  to  the  vire." 

Almost  bewildered  by  the  rapidity  of  the  move- 
ment, and  scarcely  knowing  how  it  came  about, 
Mr.  Burt  found  himself  in  the  Manor  Farm  kitchen, 
sitting  before  a  roaring  wood  fire. 

"  Get  inzide,  Missie.  Take  off  your  hat,  an'  get 
inzide." 


122  "Love  and  Quiet  Life" 

Marion  sat  down  in  the  corner,  and  the  farmer 
rebuilt  the  logs  so  that  the  flames  went  blazing  up 
the  chimney. 

"A  bit  o'  vire  do  sim  good.  I  reckon  the  winter 
is  a'most  'pon  us.  Do  ee  hear  the  win'  up  the 
chimbley  ?  'Tes  a  sure  sign  o'  rain  avore  marnen. 
Missus  !  Mr.  Burt  have  a-comed  in  to  bag  o'  ee 
vor  the  leastest  drap  o'  warm  gin  an'  water." 

Astonishment  at  this  astounding  mis-statement 
(in  reality  Mr.  Culliford's  usual  form  of  invitation), 
and  a  fear  of  being  forced  to  swallow  a  cordial  of 
which  the  effect  even  in  moderation  was  doubtful, 
filled  Mr.  Burt  with  alarm.  He  raised  his  hands 
in  horror  and  pushed  back  his  chair. 

"  Bide  where  you  be  then,  an'  Missus  shall  gic 
'ee  some  tay.  Here,  Tamsin,  shut  up  the  shutters 
— 'tes  a'most  dark  a'ready." 

The  firelight  danced  upon  the  blue  flagstones 
and  glistened  on  the  dark  oak  beams.  It  shone  on 
Tamsin's  face  as  she  crossed  the  kitchen,  smiling 
to  see  her  old  mistress. 

"  And  how  are  you,  Tamsin  ?  " 

"  Nicely,  thank  ee.  Miss  Marion,"  replied  the  girl 
with  simple  pride.  Marion's  eyes  followed  her  to 
the  mullioned  window,  and  here  and  there  a  large 
flake  of  snow  was  drifting  against  the  panes. 

Mrs.  Culliford's  candles  looked  insignificant  as 
stars  when  the  glow  of  flaming  sunset  is  still  burn- 


Charity,  with  a  Digression  into  Love  123 

ing  in  the  west,  so  richly  did  the  blazing  logs 
illuminate  the  room.  The  lavish  warmth  and 
brightness  of  the  place  already  exercised  an  in- 
fluence upon  Marion's  mind.  Her  eyes  glistened 
with  delight.  The  heat  was  almost  scorching  ; 
yet  she  gloried  in  the  discomfort,  just  as  she  some- 
times revelled  in  the  bitter  wind  on  the  hill-top. 
Unconsciously  she  was  breathing  a  new-found 
freedom,  bright  and  exhilarating  as  fresh  air.  It 
quickened  her  heart  and  brought  the  colour  to  her 
cheek.  Mr.  Culliford  was  talking  to  her  father 
with  ever-increasing  animation,  but  she  heard  never 
a  word.  The  moaning  of  the  wind,  the  roaring  of 
the  fire — she  had  forgotten  them  both  ;  yet  she  was 
listening  intently  for  the  slightest  sound.  Then 
came  a  step  in  the  porch.  The  heavy  oaken  door 
creaked,  and  a  gust  of  cold  air  rushed  into  the 
kitchen. 

"  Mr.  Hensley,"  said  placid  Mrs.  Culliford. 

As  he  came  in,  the  girl  trembled  as  if  her  con- 
science accused  her  of  a  hidden  fault.  He  wore 
top-boots,  and  in  his  hand  was  a  hunting  whip,  and 
he  was  striking  the  moisture  from  his  sleeves. 
Then  he  sat  down  by  her  side. 

"  What,  is  there  some  fallings  ?  I  said  't  'ud 
rain,"  cried  Mr.  Culliford. 

"  It  is  snowing,"  replied  Hensley. 

"  Marion,    my  dear,   I   think   we  had  better  be 


124  "Love  and  Quiet  Life" 

going,"  said  Mr.  Burt  nervously,  attempting  to 
rise. 

But  Mr.  Culliford,  extending  an  enormous  hand, 
playfully  pushed  him  back  into  his  chair.  "  You 
ca'n't  goo.  You  sha'n't  goo,  I  tell  'ee.  Zit  down 
and  drink  another  cup  o'  tay  ;  an'  then  we'll  have 
a  drap  o'  warm  cider,  an'  a  pipe,  an'  a  chat  ;  an' 
then  we'll  have  a  drap  o'  gin  an'  water  together  ; 
an'  then  you  shall  goo,  if  you  be  a-minded,  nice  an' 
warm  an'  comfor'able." 

"  But  we  are  not  prepared  for  bad  weather  !  " 

"  Bad  weather  !  'Tes  nothen  but  a  scud  o'  snow. 
If  you  do  talk  about  gwain,  I'll  lock  'ee  in,  same  as 
we  did  pa'son.  Though,  dall  the  feller,  I  wish  we 
could  a-locked  he  out — there,  let  un  take  out  his 
tithe  in  kind — an'  if  do  snow,  you  can  bide.  I  tell 
'ee,  if  'tes  rough  weather  you  shall  bide  for  a  wick. 
You  shall  bide  to  Kursmas." 

Mr.  Culliford  leaned  back  in  his  settle  and 
laughed.  In  spite  of  his  mirth,  the  words  sounded 
more  like  menace  than  invitation,  and  the  proposed 
programme  made  Mr.  Burt  shudder. 

"  It  will  not  be  much ;  there  was  starlight  between 
the  clouds,  and  the  moon  rises  in  an  hour,"  said 
Mr.  Hensley. 

The  old  gentleman  must  perforce  accept  the 
assurance,  but  for  a  few  minutes  he  gazed  into  the 
fire  in  silence.     Then  he  forgot  the  dangers  of  bad 


CnAiviTY,  WITH  A  Digression  into  Lovk  125 

weather,  and  the  dread  of  intoxicants  troubled  liim 
no  more.  He  must  speak  a  word  in  season.  He 
must  do  his  best  to  promote  peace.  Now  that  Mr. 
Percival  had  listened  so  appreciatively  to  the 
dialogue  on  '  Charity,'  not  only  duty,  but  friend- 
ship impelled  his  kindly  nature  to  frank  speech. 

"  My  dear  Mr.  Culliford,"  he  began  diffidently, 
"  I  do  not  think  Mr.  Percival  is  quite  under- 
stood  " 

"  Not  understood  ?  So  soon  as  ever  I  clapped 
eyes  'pon  un,  I  see'd  a  terr'ble  down-looken  feller. 
I  took  the  measure  o'  the  man  to  once.  Not  under- 
stood ?  Why,  I  took  un  for  one  o'  these-here  rick- 
burnen  rascals  ;  an'  so  sure  as  the  light  he'll  turn 
out  wo'se  'an  that.  Ha  !  there's  too  much  power 
a-gied  to  Popery  these  times.  Tidden  ricks  they'd 
burn  if  they  had  their  way.  Oh  no  !  Let  un  take 
out  his  tithe  in  kind.  That's  what  I  do  say.  Let 
un  take  out  his  tithe  in  kind.  Now  do  'ee  draw  in 
closer  to  the  vire,  Mr,  Burt,  an'  make  yourzclf  at 
home." 

"  Ees.  That's  what  Measter  zaid  lest  wick — let 
un  take  out  his  tithe  in  kind,"  chimed  in  Mrs. 
Culliford. 

"  But,  my  dear  Mr,  Culliford,"  pleaded  James 
Burt,  gaining  courage  in  the  face  of  opposition, 
"  we  must  not  judge  too  quickly  ;  we  must  not  let 
prejudices " 


126  "Love  and  Quiet  Life" 

"  Prejudices,"  cried  Mr.  John  CulHford,  starting 
to  his  feet.  "  John  Culiiford  never  diddcn  have  a 
prejudice  in  his  life.  Noo,  noo.  I  be  a  Englishman, 
I  be.  I  were  born  to  Manor  House  Farm  to 
Sutton,  an'  so  vi^ere  my  vather  avore  me,  an'  my 
gran'vather  avore  he,  all  o'  the  name  o'  John,  all 
died  in  their  beds  here,  an'  buried  in  Sutton  chich- 
yard.  Sound-hearted,  upstanden  men,  enjoyed 
their  victuals,  did  harm  to  noo  man.  No,  no,  no, 
Mr.  Burt ;  there's  no  prejudice.  That  don't  go  w^i' 
the  name  o'  John  CulHford." 

Restored  to  thorough  good  humour  by  these 
reflections,  Mr.  John  Culiiford  re-seated  himself 
upon  the  stability  of  his  main  argument. 

"  I  never  heard  so  much  as  a  whisper  breathed 
against  the  Cullifords,"  softly  corroborated  Mrs. 
CulHford. 

"  But  you  quite  mistake " 

"  No,  no  !  I  don't  mistake,  Mr.  Burt.  I  tell  'ee, 
so  soon  as  ever  I  zeed  the  man " 

"  I   was  going   to    say,  you    misapprehend    my 


meanmg 


"  No,  no,  Mr.  Burt.  John  Culiiford  'ud  so  soon 
die  as  he'd  wrong  you  or  any  other  man." 

"  But  as  a  Christian,  one  ought " 

"  Kurstian  !  Kurstian  !  All  the  Cullifords  were 
a-baptized  an'  a-bred  up  to  the  Church.  They  be 
noo  Papists.     Noo.     Nor  never  will,  if  the  name 


Charity,  with  a  Digression  into  Love  127 

do  live  so  long  as  time  do  last.  Let  un  take  out 
his  tithe  in  kind.  That's  nothen  but  law.  Not 
but  what  I  do  respec'  you,  Mr.  Burt.  Now  you'll 
have  a  drap  o'  gin  an'  water.  Oh  ay  !  Let  un 
take  out  his  tithe  in  kind.  Missus,  Mr.  Burt  do 
think  he'll  take  a  drap  o'  warm  gin  an'  water." 

"  But,  Mr.  Culliford,  we  must  live  in  all 
charity " 

"  Charity  !  "  quoth  Mr.  John  Culliford.  "  Noo 
liven  man  ever  bagged  bread  to  John  Culliford's 
door  to  be  zend  away  empty." 

"  But  I  did  not  use  the  word  in  the  sense  of " 

"  I  thought  you  said  charity,"  said  Mr.  Culliford 
doggedly. 

"  My  dear  Mr.  Culliford,  no  one  could  doubt 
your  kindness  of  heart.  But  we  will  renew  the 
discussion  another  time.  You  must  let  me  come 
to  see  you  again  ;  and,  seated  by  your  fireside, 
I  will  read  you  a  little  tract  on  '  Charity.'  It 
is  in  the  form  of  the  Socratic  dialogue,  and  I 
think " 

"  Zo  do  'ee  !  Zo  do  'ee  !  "  lustily  interrupted  Mr. 
Culliford,  to  whom  the  proposal  suggested  nothing 
more  definite  than  opportunity  for  renewed  hospi- 
tality. And  just  then  Mrs.  Culliford,  who  had  been 
busy  unobserved,  stepped  forward,  a  tumbler  in  her 
hand.  Feeling  that  peace  had  been  endangered, 
and    anxious    to    propitiate    his    host,    Mr.    Burt 


128  "Love  and  Quiet  Life" 

accepted  the  offering,  and  afterwards  sat  in  silence, 
piteously  sipping  with  hesitating  lips. 

Upon  the  seat  in  the  chimney  corner,  in  a  sort 
of  half  seclusion,  Mr.  Hensley  talked  with  Marion. 
He  was  speaking  of  adventures  by  flood  and  fell, 
of  the  gold  fields,  of  chances  of  fortune  rare  and 
romantic,  and  the  risk  of  being  robbed.  The  girl 
listened  intently.  Sometimes  she  sat  looking  into 
the  fire.  Then  she  raised  her  eyes  to  the  speaker, 
and  meeting  his  glance,  turned  away  with  shy 
timidity.  These  stories  of  danger,  whilst  they  filled 
the  heart  w^'th  fear,  enthralled  her.  The  novelt)- 
and  freshness  of  narrative  direct  from  life  elated 
her  beyond  all  previous  experience,  until  gradually 
his  easy,  careless  manner  dispelled  her  timorous 
ness,  and  she  found  courage  even  to  question  him. 
But  he  was  tired  of  roaming,  he  said.  He  laughed 
in  his  light,  airy  way,  as  if  the  past  were  a  frolic, 
and  the  future  a  mere  joke.  When  he  had  looked 
around  awhile,  he  should  take  a  farm,  and  settle 
down  for  a  quiet  life. 

With  a  sigh  from  the  very  depths  of  her  heart, 
she  saw  her  father  rise  to  depart. 

"  Zit  down.  Zit  down.  Bide  a  bit  longer,"  cried 
Mr.  John  Culliford.  "  No  ?  Then  wait  while  I  do 
zee  what  weather  'tes." 

Again  the  heavy  oaken  door  creaked  on  its 
hinges. 


Charity,  with  a  Digression  into  Love  129 

"  Odds  bobs  !  Why,  'tes  a  groun'  o'  snow.  An' 
the  night's  so  dark  as  a  bag.  Zit  down.  We  mus' 
git  the  lanterns,  an'  bring  'ee  gwain  so  vur  as  the 
high-road.  Ha  !  ha  !  You  mus'  take  care  o'  Missie 
Mr.  Hensley,  an'  I'll  guide  on  the  wold  gen'leman." 

The  wind  blew  in  gusts,  and  there  was  a  drift 
between  the  gate  and  uppinstock.  The  earth  was 
clad  in  a  garment  as  soft  as  wool.  The  air  felt 
quite  warm  ;  for  the  snow,  as  country  people  say 
had  brought  down  the  cold.  But  the  sky  was  still 
overcast,  and  only  a  faint  silvery  gleam  behind  the 
copse  of  pines  showed  that  the  moon  had  risen. 

"  Let  we  goo  avore.  I  do  know  the  way  best^'* 
shouted  Mr.  CuUiford.    "You  volly  in  my  tracks." 

Then  Mr.  Hensley's  lantern  went  out ;  and  thus 
several  minutes  were  lost  before  Marion  and  he 
were  ready  to  start.  Across  the  field  Mr.  Culli- 
ford's  light  went  dancing  on  like  a  will-o'-the-wisp 
But  the  road,  having  no  hedges,  was  indistinguish- 
able, and  once  Marion  stumbled  upon  the  uneven 
ground.  This  journey,  so  unusual  and  unexpected 
possessed  for  her  all  the  charm  of  an  adventure. 

"  Take  care  !  Let  me  pilot  you,"  he  whispered 
"There,  the  light  is  out  again.  So  much  the  better 
I  can  give  you  my  undivided  attention." 

He  dropped  the  lantern  on  the  snow,  and  putting 
his  hand  upon  her  arm,  led  her  into  the  road.  Mr 
Culliford   and   her  father   were   getting  farther   in 

9 


130  "Love  and  Quiet  Life" 

advance,  but  he  seemed  in  no  hurry  to  overtake 
them.  Mrs.  Culliford  had  lent  the  girl  a  shawl  to 
throw  over  her  bonnet,  and  with  one  hand  she 
was  holding  it  together  beneath  her  chin.  A  gust 
of  wind  raised  it  from  her  shoulders,  and  blew 
it  fluttering  over  her  head.  She  laughed  and 
struggled  in  vain  with  the  refractory  garment. 
He  replaced  it.  And  then,  to  preclude  further 
difficulties  by  holding  the  shawl  in  place,  he  put 
his  arm  round  her  waist.  It  was  the  attitude  of 
the  rustic  lovers  she  had  so  often  seen  at  dusk,  or 
of  a  Sunday  afternoon,  when  they  sought  the  se- 
clusion of  the  hill-side,  or  the  solitude  of  the  moor. 

A  child  brought  up  without  playmates,  and 
grown  into  womanhood  without  tasting  the  glad 
gaiety  of  youth — to  her  the  simplest  action  was 
fraught  with  deep  significance.  Even  though  it 
meant  nothing,  it  came  as  the  realization  of  a 
dream.  She  had  often  wondered  how  Love  might 
come — with  what  phrases  he  would  disclose  him- 
self. And  now,  uncalled  and  unrecognised,  he 
crept  into  her  heart  without  a  word  to  announce  or 
welcome  him. 

"  So  you  have  never  come  to  meet  me,"  he  whis- 
pered. "  I  have  watched  for  you  every  day.  But 
now  we  know  each  other  better.  You  must  promise 
something  definite  to-night.     Com.e  to-morrow." 

"  I  could  not." 


Charity,  with  a  Digression  into  Love  131 

"  When  Mr.  Burt  goes  to  Bridgetown." 
"  The  snow  will  be  deep  in  the  lane." 
"  The  hollow  shelters  the  road.    Come  and  see." 
"  No,  no.      I  must  make  haste,  or  father  will  be 
waiting.     They  are  so  far  in  front." 

There  was  no  trifling  in  her  refusal.  The  tacit 
understanding  that  their  meeting  must  be  a  secret 
filled  her  with  vague  alarm.  She  felt  instinctively 
that  her  father  would  disapprove.  And  yet  the 
whispered  possibility  sounded  pleasant  in  the  ear. 

"You  must  come.  I  cannot  go  on  loving  you 
like  this,  and  not  tell  you  of  it." 

The  wind  had  again  fallen,  and  across  the  field 
in  the  still  night  came  the  voice  of  Mr.  Culliford, 
raised  to  its  highest  pitch  of  warm-hearted  vin- 
dictiveness.  "Let  un  take  out  his  tithe  in  kind. 
That's  nothen  but  law.  Let  un  take  out  his  tithe 
in  kind." 

The  familiar  sound  dispelled  the  feeling  of  soli- 
tude ;  and  just  then  the  moon  shone  through  a 
rift  in  the  cloud,  and  they  could  see  the  clump 
of  trees  in  the  home  ground,  and  distinguish  the 
shapes  of  the  village  roofs  against  the  sky. 

"  I  must  make  haste,"  she  insisted,  and  freeing 
herself  she  walked  resolutely  forward.  "You  see 
they  are  waiting.  They  have  reached  the  gate." 
she  cried  excitedly,  pointing  to  Mr.  Culliford's 
lantern,  now  at  rest. 


132  ''Love  and  Quiet  Life" 

"  Marion,  where  are  you  ?  "  called  her  father. 

The  words  sounded  like  an  accusation,  and  her 
scarcely  noticeable  delay  magnified  itself  into  an 
infinite  loitering.  Like  the  fruit  of  Eden,  this  first 
taste  of  love  awakened  her  self-consciousness ;  and, 
had  it  been  possible,  she  too  could  have  hidden 
amongst  the  trees.  She  walked  quite  rapidly, 
scarcely  hearing  and  not  heeding  the  appeal  Mr. 
Hensley  addressed  to  her.  Her  only  desire  was  to 
rejoin  her  father,  and  reach  home  without  com- 
ment. But  nobody  remarked  that  they  had  been 
long.  It  was  the  most  natural  thing  in  the  world 
that  a  lantern  should  go  out. 

It  had  become  much  lighter,  and  amidst  the 
familiar  objects  of  the  village,  Mr.  Burt  and  Marion 
walked  briskly  homewards. 

"  I  think  Mr.  Culliford  was  pleased  with  my 
proposal  to  read  to  him,"  said  he,  as  they  passed 
the  church. 

"  It  appeared  so,  Father,"  replied  the  girl,  sud- 
denly recalling  her  wandering  attention.  But  he 
was  too  absorbed  to  notice  her  abstraction. 

These  unexpected  hours  of  human  companion- 
ship had  quickened  the  spirit  of  James  Burt ;  for, 
wishing  Marion  "good-night,"  he  added,  "I  think 
I  will  sit  up  awhile  and  write." 

She  took  the  precious  miniature  from  the  wall, 
and  seated  herself  upon  the  bed. 


Charity,  with  a  Digression  into  Love   133 

"  Yes  !     He  loves  me  !  " 

She  assured  her  heart  of  this  great  truth.  She 
confided  it  to  the  picture  again  and  again,  until 
the  eyes  seemed  to  look  back  into  hers  with  a  new 
light  of  understanding  and  approval.  An  idea, 
often  present  to  her,  returned  that  night  with  the 
vivid  force  of  a  reality.  She  fancied  her  mother's 
spirit,  ever  near,  was  wont  to  watch  over  her.  This 
was  consistent  with  all  she  had  ever  heard,  or  read, 
or  thought  of  the  mysteries  of  Life,  and  Death, 
and  Eternity.  Her  mother  was  there — at  that 
moment  by  her  side — and  Marion  pressed  her  lips 
upon  the  tiny  portrait,  and  spoke  aloud.  She  had 
only  one  theme — that  this  man  loved  her.  Who 
should  understand  it  with  a  deeper  sympathy  than 
this  lost  mother  who  herself  had  loved  so  madly? 

At  midnight  when  her  father  walked  upstairs,  a 
line  of  light  was  still  shining  beneath  Marion's  door. 

Passing,  he  gently  tapped  upon  the  panel. 

"  Not  in  bed,  child,  not  in  bed  ?  You  will  ruin 
your  eyes,"  he  chided,  half  in  approval. 

Within  the  scope  of  his  consideration  was  only 
one  passion  —  the  passion  for  learning,  strong 
enough  to  overcome  the  claims  of  night.  Yet  love 
had  come  that  evening  to  one  heart  at  least. 


CHAPTER   XII 

SUTTON  IN  ARMS 

With  the  drawing  in  of  the  days  Tranter  Coombs 
brought  darker  stories  of  the  terrible  doings  up  the 
country.  Captain  Swing  was  about  again,  sure 
enough.  Half  the  ricks  in  Hampshire  were  a- 
burncd.  A  pack  o'  fellers  did  goo  about  wi'  faces 
so  black  as  the  very  wold  Nick  hiszelf,  an'  beat  up 
the  machinery  wi'  sledge-hammers  into  bits  the 
size  o'  ho'se  beans.  The  tranter  deprecated  these 
proceedings,  as  likely  to  upset  the  country,  look-y- 
zee  ;  but  he  thought  the  proposed  locomotive  ought 
to  be  put  down  by  law. 

He  used  to  collect  tales  and  scraps  from 
newspapers,  irrespective  of  dates,  and  recount  them 
one  after  another,  with  accumulative  interest. 
These  stories,  appearing  of  necessity  in  serial  form, 
infinitely  multiplied  themselves.  First  the  crime 
itself;  then  the  apprehension  on  suspicion  ;  the  dis- 
missal with  its  regretful  uncertainty,  since  iniquity 
was  still  at  large ;  the  arrest  of  the  real  criminal  ; 
the  trial,  conviction,  and  ultimate  turning-ofif  which 
followed   hard   upon    it     With  the  lapse  of  time 

134 


Sutton  in  Arms  135 

sequence  got  broken  ;  the  ordinary  mind  became 
confused.  Then  the  imagination  of  Sutton  rose  to 
the  occasion.  It  added,  head  and  tail,  parts  essen- 
tial to  any  healthy  narrative,  and  the  merest  dis- 
jointed fragment  became  a  living  organism. 

A  feeling  of  insecurity  quickened  the  patriotic 
spirit  of  Sutton. 

Mr,  John  Culliford  had  been  appointed  sergeant 
of  the  new  troop  of  Yeomanry  Cavalry,  and  re- 
cruits poured  in  from  all  the  adjacent  villages.  Mr. 
Hensley  joined  ;  so  did  Solomon  Moggridge  the 
constable,  and  a  couple  more  other  young  chaps 
from  Upton.  So  did  Abraham  Bartlett  and  Josiah 
Clarke.  For  if  Sutton  were  a  small  place  it  had  a 
great  heart,  and,  as  often  happens  with  little  people, 
a  great  deal  of  pride. 

As  Mrs.  Culliford  said  to  Mrs.  Carew,  "  Though 
there  mid  be  but  vew,  the  more  reason  not  to  look 
foolish." 

So  the  cavalry  of  Sutton,  with  a  reinforcement 
from  Upton,  used  to  exercise  twice  a  week  on  the 
level  moor  behind  Mr.  Burt's  house,  and  wonderful 
were  the  evolutions  there  performed.  As  these 
drills  were  voluntary,  and  undertaken  purely  from 
martial  spirit,  recruits  did  not  don  their  gorgeous 
tunics  of  blue  and  gold  but  came  just  as  they  were. 
If  Abraham  was  busy,  he  rolled  his  smock  around 
his  waist,  girded  on  his  sword,  mounted  his  mare, 


136  "Love  and  Quiet  Life" 

and  was  ready.  Josiah,  however,  when  time 
allowed,  preferred  to  put  on  his  helmet,  a  hand- 
some piece  of  burnished  metal,  displaying  in  front 
the  lion  and  the  unicorn  in  brass.  He  questioned 
the  stability  of  this  imposing  ornament.  "  Zo  zure 
as  a  gun,"  argued  Josiah,  "  if  I  don't  min'  out, 
woone  o'  these  days  when  I  be  to  a  gallop,  he'll 
vail  off."  But  Josiah,  being  sadly  deficient  in  self- 
confidence,  was  a  prey  to  nervous  fears. 

From  her  window  Marion  constantly  watched 
the  proceedings. 

One  morning  the  horse  of  Sutton  drew  up  close 
to  the  house  to  practise  the  sword  exercise.  They 
were  all  there.  Abraham  and  Josiah,  Solomon 
Moggridge  and  Mr.  Hensley,  and  the  couple  more 
other  young  chaps  from  Upton.  Mr.  Culliford 
took  up  a  position  in  front  to  instruct  and  give  the 
word  of  command. 

"  Now  then,"  said  he.  "  Zo  zoon  as  I  do  zay 
Draw — bide  zo  quiet  as  mice.  But  when  I  do 
holla  Sivords — out  wi'  'em. 

"  Draw —  No,  no,  Solomon  Moggridge.  Put  un 
back,  put  un  back.     Now  then 

"  Draw — Swords." 

Seven  weapons  flashed  in  the  winter  sun  like 
seven  o'clock — striking. 

"Now,  that's  very  tidy,"  shouted  Abraham  in 
great  delight.     "  I  do  call  we  done  that  to  rights." 


Sutton  in  Arms  137 

"  Ay  !  Zo  right  as  ninepence.  I  waited  vor  the 
word  thik  time,"  boasted  Solomon,  legitimately 
proud  of  having  withstood  temptation. 

Elated  with  this  great  success,  they  continued 
the  exercise  with  zeal.  Under  the  superintendence 
of  Mr.  John  Culliford,  they  slashed  to  the  right, 
they  slashed  to  the  left,  they  dealt  the  most  terrible 
downright  blows.  The  seven  chiefs  before  Thebes 
at  no  time  made  a  bolder  show  than  these  good 
men  of  Sutton  and  Upton.  Yet  it  fell  to  the  lot 
of  Josiah,  a  man  so  mild  that  he  would  not  will- 
ingly have  hurt  the  hair  of  a  mouse,  to  perform  a 
feat  which  brought  tears  into  his  great  blue  eyes. 

"  Stop  !  stop  !  Heart  alive,  stop  I  If  I  ha'n't  a- 
chopped  off  my  ho'se's  near  ear." 

The  little  troop  promptly  returned  their  swords 
to  their  scabbards,  and  gathered  round,  intent  upon 
investigation. 

The  beauty  of  the  animal  was  certainly  impaired, 
for,  as  Abraham  sympathetically  pointed  out, 
"  though  mid  be  little  better  'an  a  inch  a-gone,  the 
loss  o'  it  do  gie  the  ho'se  a  sart  ov  a  one-eyed  look." 

But  Constable  Moggridge  discovered  consolation 
even  in  oddity.  He  said,  "  Wull,  if  Josiah  do  ever 
lose  thik  ho'se,  or  have  un  a-stoled,  he  could  swear 
to  thik  ho'se  if  'twer'  out  o'  ten  thousan." 

Mr.  John  Culliford  took  a  more  serious  view  of 
the  matter.    He  reflected  that  only  the  intervention 


138  "Love  and  Quiet  Life* 

of  Providence  prevented  Josiah  from  cutting  off 
the  head  ;  and  if,  please  God,  Josiah  should  ever 
chance  to  clip  back  t'other  ear  to  anything  like 
a  good  match,  there'd  be  nothing  in  it  to  catch 
any  man's  eye. 

"  Ah  !  "  sobbed  Josiah,  taking  off  his  golden  hel- 
met to  mop  his  yellow  head.  "  'Tes  a  lesson  in- 
deed, Noo  more  sodgeren  vor  I.  Noo  more  sod- 
geren  vor  I." 

But  the  company  would  not  hear  of  Josiah's 
resignation  ;  for  as  to  the  ho'se,  he  wasn't  hurt  one 
mo'sel  bit.  When  Josiah  dismounted,  availing 
himself  of  the  universal  sympathy  that  horse 
cropped  grass.  After  all,  he  was  just  as  good  as 
ever  for  a  charger— or  to  fetch  in  the  milk. 

Then  the  philosophic  temper  of  Sutton,  having 
noted  the  effect,  proceeded  to  inquire  the  cause. 

At  first  Josiah  affirmed  that  the  horse  "  mus'  a- 
reared  hiszelf  up  like,  jis  at  the  very  nick  o'  time 
when " 

But  this  explanation  was  overruled  by  a  con- 
sensus of  public  opinion  thoroughly  well  acquainted 
with  the  horse ;  and  Josiah  admitted  having  been 
at  the  moment  preoccupied  "  wi'  thik  'nation  fool 
thing  ov  a  helmet."  So  everything  ended  happily, 
and  the  troop  dismissed.  As  Mrs.  Culliford  after- 
wards said  to  Mrs.  Carew,  "  A'ter  all  did  really 
ought  to  keep  a  body  up  in  heart  like,  if  only  to 


Sutton  in  Arms  139 

show  what  a  power  there  is  in  a  sword  well 
handled." 

As  the  little  company  dispersed,  Mr.  Hensley 
turned  his  horse's  head,  and  instead  of  riding  to- 
wards the  gate,  cantered  across  the  mead.  In 
comparison  with  the  ragged-coated  hacks  of  the 
yeomen,  his  mount  was  a  picture  of  equine  beauty. 
At  a  short  distance  from  the  rhine  he  drew  rein — 
then  struck  his  horse  with  the  spur,  and  took  the 
black  water  flying.  The  others  loitered  to  watch 
and  applaud.  Mr.  Hensley  leapt  the  ditch  some 
half  a  dozen  times,  forwards  and  back  ;  and  then 
they  all  rode  away  together,  leaving  the  moor  as 
desolate  and  soulless  as  a  winter  day. 

At  least  so  it  seemed  to  Marion.  From  behind 
the  window  curtain,  in  tremulous  excitement,  un- 
seen she  had  watched  the  proceedings.  How 
splendid  he  was  !  With  what  ease  and  carelessness 
he  rode  !  These  dykes,  dark,  stagnant,  reported 
to  be  many  feet  deep  in  water  and  unfathomable 
in  mud,  never  babbling  like  a  brook,  nor  laughing 
like  the  running  stream,  but  frowning  between  two 
rows  of  cold  green  rushes,  were  always  associated 
in  her  imagination  with  danger  and  disaster. 
Sometimes  a  cow  was  found  to  have  fallen  in  ;  then 
followed  an  alarm  and  a  hasty  rush  of  villagers  to 
dig  her  out.  And  once  within  Marion's  recollec- 
tion, a  Sutton  man,  returning  of  a  Saturday  night 


140  "Love  and  Quiet  Life" 

with  his  chores  from  Bridgetown,  mistaking  the 
road,  walked  into  the  water  and  was  drowned. 
These  gloomy  associations  filled  her  heart  with 
awe.  When  the  horse  leapt  she  held  her  breath ; 
as  he  alighted  neatly  like  a  bird  she  gave  a  sigh  of 
relief.  In  proportion  with  this  perception  of  peril 
was  her  admiration  for  the  cool  daring  of  the  man, 
who  in  mere  frolic  undertook  such  feats.  She  felt 
the  fascination  of  physical  strength  and  courage, 
virtues  often  vividly  brought  before  her  mind  in 
ancient  books,  but  never  realized  in  her  secluded 
life.  Her  father  was  timidity  itself.  She  doubtless 
shared  the  faint-heartedness  of  her  sex,  a  con- 
scious timorousness  in  the  face  of  imagined  danger, 
in  contrast  with  which  the  boldness  of  manhood 
shone  with  incomprehensible  and  dazzling  force. 
In  her  eyes  the  man  became  a  hero. 

And  he  loved  her.  The  thought  sent  a  thrill 
through  her  veins.  He  had  asked  her  to  meet 
him,  and  although  consent  was  impossible,  with  a 
lapse  of  time  the  idea  had  grown  very  familiar. 
Insensibly  a  longing  to  see  him,  to  listen  to  him, 
crept  into  the  innermost  cranny  of  her  heart.  It 
overcame  every  scruple  and  pervaded  her  being. 
With  strange  inconsistency  she  lost  her  doubts  in 
the  fear  that  he  might  mistake  her  absence  for  a 
refusal  of  his  love. 

The  snow  remained  on  the  ground  several  days, 


Sutton  in  Arms  141 

then  gradually  disappeared  beneath  continuous 
gentle  rain.  But  to-day  the  air  was  as  soft  as 
spring.  The  winter  sun  smiled  insincere  welcome 
upon  an  unexpected  butterfly  fluttering  upon 
Marion's  pane.  When  she  opened  the  window 
there  came  a  scent  of  purple  violets  from  the  bank 
beneath  the  garden  hedge. 

Of  late  the  walks  had  ceased.  Her  father  was 
at  work  eagerly  retouching  a  dialogue  in  the  ex- 
pectation that  Mr.  Percival  might  call  in  the  after- 
noon. He  would  not  care  to  stir.  The  moment 
was  in  every  way  favourable,  and  why  should  she 
hesitate  ?  For  years  a  daily  journey  through  the 
copse  and  over  the  hill  had  been  habitual.  She 
would  ask  her  father  to  accompany  her,  and  should 
he  refuse,  every  maidenly  scruple  would  be  satisfied. 

He  scarcely  raised  his  head  when  she  entered 
the  study. 

"  Will  you  go  out  this  morning,  Father  ? "  she 
said. 

"Well,  my  dear,  I  rather  wanted — Yes,  yes  I  will." 

He  laid  down  his  pen,  but  his  eyes  were  still 
fixed  upon  the  page. 

"  You  are  busy  —  and  would  rather  I  went 
alone  ?  " 

He  hesitated  a  moment.  "  Do,  do,  my  child," 
he  replied,  with  evident  relief 

The  village  street  was    empty    as   she   walked 


142  "  Love  and  Quiet  Life  " 

down  the  causeway,  and  through  the  narrow  drang. 
The  lane  looked  lonely.  The  hedgerows,  bare  ex- 
cept for  the  catkins  on  the  hazel  bushes,  were  thick 
and  high,  completely  shutting  off  the  fields.  The 
way  was  little  used  and  grass-covered,  and  here 
and  there  upon  the  sheltered  side  remnants  of  a 
snow-drift,  soiled  and  wasted,  still  remained. 
There  were  no  recent  signs  of  human  presence,  but 
a  few  tracks  of  horses'  hoofs. 

She  passed  through  the  hollow  beneath  the 
overhanging  pines  and  reached  the  hill-top.  To 
have  seen  no  one  was  both  a  disappointment  and 
a  relief. 

Across  the  road  drifted  a  thin  film  of  blue  smoke 
with  the  smell  of  burning  sticks  ;  and  from  over- 
hedge  came  the  sound  of  a  boy's  voice.  But 
Johnny  had  found  a  new  song — 

"  Holly  ho  1     Blackey-cap, 
Don't  thee  steal  my  measter's  crap, 
While  I  lie  down  an'  have  a  nap. 
For  if  my  measter  chance  to  come 
Thee  mus'  flee,  an'  I  mus'  run." 

Beyond  the  copse  a  low,  lichen-covered  walk 
divides  the  field  from  the  road,  and  attracted  by 
the  melody,  Marion  looked  over  in  search  of  the 
singer.  Close  by,  stooping  to  light  his  pipe  by 
Johnny's  fire,  was  Mr.  Hensley.  At  that  moment 
he  rose.     The  girl's  cheek   flushed   crimson,  as  if 


Sutton  in  Arms  143 

she  were  detected  in  a  crime,  as  he  came  clamber- 
ing over  the  wall  to  talk  to  her. 

"  I  have  watched  for  you  every  day,"  he  laughed. 
"  People  say  you  care  nothing  about  weather,  but 
I  saw  you  had  not  been.  Which  way  did  you 
come  ?  " 

"  I  came  up  the  hill." 

"  My  horse  is  tied  up  by  the  trees.  I  should 
have  seen  your  footprints  and  overtaken  you  in  a 
minute.  Have  you  ever  been  to  the  bottom  of  the 
copse  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no  !     We  have  always  kept  to  the  road." 

"  I  have  never  been  able  to  keep  to  the  road,"  he 
cried  gaily,  and  yet  to  her  quick  ear  the  words 
seemed  tinged  with  regret. 

His  careless  manner  restored  her  self-possession. 
He  had  dropped  the  lover,  and  talked  with  the 
ease  of  a  familiar  friend,  the  gaiety  of  a  comrade. 
The  copse  was  open  to  the  road,  and  as  they 
walked  between  the  trees  he  kept  striking  the  fir- 
cones with  his  riding-whip.  The  fallen  spines  from 
the  larches  covered  the  ground,  making  it  brown 
and  dry  like  a  floor.  She  stopped  to  look  at  a  last 
year's  nest  in  the  leafless  underwood. 

"Lower  down  there  are  springs.  The  water 
overflows  from  a  pit  into  a  gully.    Let  us  go  and  see." 

He  cleared  the  sprawling  brambles  from  before 
her  feet,  and  held  aside  the  branches  for  her  to 


144  "  Love  and  Quiet  Life  " 

pass.  Thus  they  pushed  their  way  into  an  open 
space  at  the  bottom  of  the  wood.  The  pit,  half 
inclosed  with  thick  thorn  bushes,  was  over- 
shadowed with  trees.  The  moist  ground  below 
was  covered  with  reeds  and  rushes,  from  which, 
with  a  hoarse  quack  and  a  flurry  of  wings,  a  wild 
duck  rose  at  the  sound  of  their  approach.  Marion 
gave  a  quick  cry  of  delight.  In  comparison  with 
the  cold  moor  and  the  rugged  hill-top,  this  nook 
was  a  fairy-land. 

"  Look  !     It  is  quite  like  lace." 

She  was  pointing  to  a  margin  of  soft  mud  at  the 
mouth  of  the  pit  covered  with  a  tracery  of  birds' 
claws. 

"  They  came  there  in  the  bad  weather,"  he  said. 
"  The  springs  are  warm  and  never  freeze.  The  big 
ones  are  a  moorhen's.  That  was  a  blackbird  went 
hopping  along  the  edge.  The  small  one  that  ran 
must  have  been  a  wagtail." 

"  I  suppose  nobody  ever  comes  here." 

"  Nobody.  It  is  left  for  you  and  me  to  come 
here  all  alone,  and  love  each  other.  I  loved  you 
the  first  time  I  saw  you — the  first  time  I  heard 
your  voice  upon  the  hill.  And  I  know  you  love 
me — you  must  love  me — you  shall " 

He  had  thrown  his  arm  around  her  neck,  and 
was  wildly  kissing  her.  His  words  rang  in  her 
ears — his  kisses  burnt  upon  her  forehead,  her  cheek, 


Sutton  in  Arms  145 

her  lips.  One  momentary  impulse  to  resist,  and  a 
sense  of  happiness  crept  over  her  as  she  acquiesced 
in  this  inevitable  love.  It  did.  not  even  seem 
strange.  From  the  first  she  had  foreseen  it.  It 
had  filled  her  thoughts,  occupied  her  dreams,  and 
interwoven  itself  with  her  solitude.  It  was  so 
natural,  so  sequent,  so  familiar  to  the  longing  of 
her  heart,  that  it  came  to  her  soul  as  a  blessing 
fore-ordained  and  heaven-sent. 

"  You  will  love  me,"  he  whispered.     "  You  do." 

What  could  she  say  ?  The  words  were  hidden 
in  her  heart,  and  she  must  needs  hide  her  face  upon 
his  shoulder,  because  she  could  not  utter  them. 

Suddenly  she  was  startled  by  an  ejaculation  of 
anger.     "  Come  away,"  he  whispered  eagerly. 

In  the  arable  ground  above  the  pit  stood  Johnny 
Sandboy.  An  unerring  rustic  instinct  had  taught 
the  boy  that  something  must  be  moving  where  the 
wild  duck  rose.  A  native  inquisitiveness  led  him 
to  the  spot.  He  had  climbed  the  bank,  and  from 
that  eminence  looked  down  upon  the  lovers  with 
the  lofty  indifference  of  early  youth. 

They  passed  quickly  out  of  sight  amongst  the 
trees.     He  returned  to  business — 

"  Holly  ho  !     Blackey-cap, 
Don't  thee  steal  my  measter's  crap." 


10 


CHAPTER  XIII 

SPRINGTIME 

The  winter  passed  quite  quietly.  No  sound  of 
the  prevailing  discontent  was  heard  in  Sutton,  and 
the  Christmas  festivities  were  unmarred  by  violence 
or  misfortune.  The  carol-singing  to  some  extent 
restored  harmony  to  the  parish.  It  was  recognised 
that  singers  who  could  sing  so  well  were  throwing 
away  God's  gifts  to  be  silent.  As  Mrs.  Culliford 
said  to  Mrs.  Carew,  it  wasn't  Mr.  Percival  that  was 
hurt  by  it.  And  even  if  the  parish  should  sing  out 
of  the  new  book,  there  was  no  need  to  give  way 
on  the  principle.  Sure  you  can  sing  out  of  all  the 
books  of  creation,  if  you  be  a  mind  to.  A  pretty 
thing  indeed  if  you  couldn't.  And  so  on  the 
Sunday  as  Candlemas  came  on  the  Tuesday,  Josiah 
unexpectedly  struck  up  with  the  flute,  John  Sand- 
boy joined  in  with  the  bass,  and  the  whole  parish 
praised  God,  without  prejudice. 

But  everybody  stood  firm  about  the  tithe. 

So  the  parson  had  no  alternative  but  to  build 

himself  a  barn  and  granary,  and  this  work  excited 

the  interest  of  Sutton  during  the  whole   of  the 

146 


Springtime  147 

spring.  The  little  place  had  never  witnessed  such 
activity.  Everybody  in  the  village  (except  Girt- 
gran-dadder,  who,  duller  than  ever  since  Johnny 
went  to  work,  could  not  be  made  to  understand) 
walked  through  the  drang  twice  a  day  to  the  piece 
of  glebe  at  the  back  of  the  parsonage,  to  note  the 
progress  of  the  journeyman  mason  from  Upton, 
Many  people  spent  their  leisure  thus,  and  in  Sutton 
considerable  leisure  was  allowed. 

The  winter  wheat  grew  up  out  of  the  way,  and 
Johnny  was  keeping  a  field  of  beans  at  the  other 
end  of  the  farm.  No  eyes  now  could  overlook 
the  pit,  and  the  copse  was  as  lovely  as  lovers  could 
wish.  Buds  began  to  swell  upon  the  boughs,  and 
the  grass  to  spring.  Birds  were  mating.  Chaf- 
finches went  glinting  between  branches  glistening 
with  moisture,  and  the  air  was  full  of  song-. 

Marion  met  her  lover  every  day.  The  concourse 
_  of  people  to  look  at  the  new  barn  destroyed  the 
privacy  of  the  lane,  and  she  used  to  take  the  road 
skirting  the  moor  and  ascend  the  hill  by  the  foot- 
path through  the  fields,  where  the  straggling 
rookery  studs  the  elm  trees.  The  rooks  were 
busy  then,  marauding  and  mating  like  the  rest 
of  the  world.  The  desire  for  secrecy  prompting 
this  round-about  route  grew  with  the  increase  of 
her  love.  Once  or  twice  her  father  had  spoken 
slightingly  of  Mr.   Hensley,  as  of  a  man  without 


148  "Love  and  Quiet  Life" 

learning  and  wanting  stability  of  character,  and 
that  made  her  diffident.  She  feared  the  dis- 
pleasure, mild  but  unyielding,  which  perhaps 
awaited  the  disclosure  of  her  love.  The  simplicity 
of  her  girlish  life  had  fled,  to  be  followed  by  a  com- 
plexity of  emotion  which  kept  her  heart  in  con- 
tinual agitation.  Her  love  was  a  delirium  of  joy, 
overcast  at  times  with  a  dark  cloud  of  vague  pre- 
sentiment. 

She  was  walking  along  the  causeway  with  her 
father  one  morning,  when  Mr.  Percival  overtook 
them  just  as  Mr.  Hensley  came  riding  by. 

"  I  do  not  think  I  have  ever  seen  that  gentleman 
on  foot.  He  does  not  attend  Sutton  church,"  said 
the  clergyman  drily. 

The  remark  conveyed  an  unexpressed  disparage- 
ment. The  paved  way  was  narrow,  and  to  conceal 
her  emotion  the  girl  stepped  back  and  walked 
behind  the  others.  She  listened  intently  as  her 
father  replied  with  his  quiet  smile:  — 

"  He  once  rendered  me  a  timely  service.  And 
yet  I  scarcely  know  him.  I  suppose  we  are  not 
congenial. 

"  I  know  something  of  his  family.  I  fancy  he 
has  given  his  friends  some  trouble,  and  run  through 
a  considerable  fortune.  The  sort  of  man  who,  as 
they  say,  is  only  his  own  enemy." 

"  Let  us  hope  he  has  settled  down  now." 


Springtime  149 

"  There  is  a  rumour  that  he  gambles  a  great  deal." 

Mr.  Burt  sighed.  His  soul  overflowed  with 
charity,  and  condemnation  melted  to  pity  in  the 
warmth  of  his  heart.  "If  only  somebody  could 
speak  to  him,"  was  all  he  said. 

The  girl  drank  in  this  conversation  eagerly.  So 
commonplace  in  manner,  yet  so  free  from  cen- 
soriousness,  it  carried  conviction  upon  every  word. 
Besides,  Mr.  Hensley  had  often  spoken  lightly  of 
himself.  The  indignation  aroused  by  Mr.  Per- 
cival's  criticism  was  swept  away  by  her  father's 
final  remark.  She  was  moved  by  the  force  of  its 
deep  sympathy.  She  shared  this  simple  confidence 
in  the  power  of  speech  ;  and  the  suggestion  taking 
possession  of  her  mind,  assumed  all  the  force  of  a 
command. 

She  had  promised  to  meet  her  lover  that  morn- 
ing, but  now  perhaps  it  might  be  impossible. 
Could  she  speak  to  him  ?  The  impulse  was  irre- 
sistible, yet  she  was  full  of  fear  lest  by  so  doing  she 
might  lessen  his  love. 

They  reached  home.  "  Come  in,  Mr,  Percival. 
Come  in,"  urged  James  Burt. 

They  entered  the  house,  her  father  leading  the 
way  into  the  library.  The  girl  closed  the  door 
behind  them  and  stood  hesitating  one  moment  in 
the  passage.  Could  she,  unmissed,  go  out  \\-hilst 
their  visitor   was  present,  and    return  unobserved 


150  "Love  and  Quiet  Life" 

before  his  departure  ?  She  was  already  late. 
Suddenly,  as  if  from  without,  her  mind  was  made 
up.  She  quietly  opened  the  front  door,  passed 
unseen  through  the  garden,  and  into  the  road.  It 
was  like  making  an  escape,  and  she  hurried 
between  the  pollard  willows  and  across  the  field, 
unobservant  of  the  wind,  the  sunshine,  or  the 
primroses  peeping  upon  the  sheltering  bank. 

He  was  waiting  in  the  road  on  the  hill. 

As  her  eyes  alighted  upon  him  her  fears  fled. 
When  he  kissed  her  all  doubts  vanished.  There 
was  no  room  in  life  for  anything  but  love,  and  her 
heart  was  full  of  it.  They  walked  upon  the  open 
down,  in  the  winding  tracks  amongst  the  gorse 
and  dried-up  heather  to  a  small  quarry,  from 
which  at  that  time  was  drawn  the  stone  for  mend- 
ing roads.  No  one  was  in  sight.  The  place  was 
so  remote  that  pick-axes  and  tools  were  safely  left 
for  weeks  upon  the  ground.  They  seated  them- 
.selves  on  a  level  ledge  against  the  side  of  the  rock. 

Her  anxiety  returned,  but  under  the  fascination 
of  his  presence  her  purpose  wavered.  She  would 
not  tell  what  she  had  heard,  and  yet  she  could  not 
hide  her  disquietude. 

"  Is  anything  the  matter?  "  he  presently  asked. 

"  I  was  afraid  I  could  not  come.  Then  I 
walked  fast,  and  now  I  am  resting,"  she  replied, 
with  an  attempt  at  gaiety ;  but  the  explanation 


Springtime  151 

sounded  unnatural  and  insufficient.  "  Do  you 
know  the  feeling  that  it  is  impossible  to  talk  ? 
That  is  the  time  to  listen.  Now  tell  me  all  about 
yourself.  You  have  never  told  me  why  you  went 
abroad,  nor  any  of  your  history  before  that." 

"  That  would  be  too  much  like  a  confession,"  he 
laughed,  in  the  old  irresponsible  manner. 

"  It  does  not  appear  to  oppress  your  conscience." 

"  What  a  serious  maiden  it  is,  without  a  trace  of 
frivolity  !  "  he  said  quite  kindly.  "  I  go  in  awe  of 
you.  Did  you  ever  commit  any  folly  besides 
this?" 

"  Besides  what  ?  " 

"  This  loving  me." 

His  manner  pained  her.  To  speak  of  love  as 
folly  was  a  form  of  blasphemy,  like  treating  with 
levity  a  holy  subject.  But  his  arm  was  around  her 
neck,  and  for  protest,  she  only  nestled  closer  to  his 
side. 

Suddenly,  as  if  in  compunction  at  some  un- 
welcome recollection,  his  demeanour  changed. 

"  I  have  always  been  a  fool,"  he  cried  bitterly. 
"  I  have  wasted  everything — friends,  money, 
character,  all  there  is.  It  runs  in  my  blood  to 
squander,  and  soon  there  will  be  nothing  left." 

"  But  if  you  see  this  so  clearly " 

She  paused.  His  words  filled  her  with  per- 
plexity.    Surely  to  recognise  in  an  action  evil,  or 


T52  "Love  and  Quiet  Life" 

an  evil  consequence,  was  to  render  performance 
impossible  ?  It  defeated  intention  and  paralysed 
the  will.  Sheltered  from  temptation,  and  un- 
suspicious of  the  passion  which  lurks  like  hidden 
mutiny  in  the  untried  human  heart,  her  experience 
could  offer  no  explanation  in  so  strange  a  matter, 

"  Yes,  I  see  it  clearly  enough — afterwards.  But 
the  moment  is  always  too  strong.  There  is  a 
weak  link  in  my  best  resolution,  and  there  it 
breaks.  I  have  determined  hundreds  of  times 
never  to  touch  another  card,  yet  I  meet  a  man  and 
go  in  and  play.  I  came  to  learn  how  to  manage 
the  remnant  of  my  estate,  but  I  should  scarcely  be 
here  one  day  in  the  week,  if  I  did  not  stay  to  see 
you.  I  said,  I  will  never  breathe  a  word  of  love  to 
Marion  Burt ;  yet  a  snow-storm,  a  gust  of  wind, 
a  touch  of  the  finger  against  her  cheek — and  all 
my  prudence  is  blown  to  the  four  quarters  of  the 
globe !  " 

She  quietly  freed  herself  from  his  embrace. 
Her  heart  sank  and  the  colour  forsook  her  cheek. 
"You  feel  that  it  is  imprudent?"  she  faltered. 
Her  joy  at  his  love  was  always  mingled  with 
surprise,  and  she  was  capable  of  renunciation. 

"  I  feel  that  it  is  my  only  happiness  or  hope.  I 
wish  it  had  come  to  me  years  ago.  Then  perhaps 
things  might  have  been  different.  I  might  have 
been  a  wiser  man." 


Springtime  153 

"  But  you  can  be  now.  You  are,"  she  cried  with 
the  enthusiasm  of  love. 

"  For  a  moment  you  make  it  seem  possible.  But 
nothing  lives  so  long  as  a  bad  record.  It  crops 
up  again  and  again.  It  chokes  everything.  Ill- 
natured  stories  and  gossip  may  find  their  way  even 
into  Sutton.  Your  father  will  hold  up  his  hands 
in  horror,  and  you  will  turn  your  back  upon  me 
with  scorn." 

"  No,  no  !  Never  !  "  she  murmured,  and  by  way 
of  emphasis  she  placed  her  hand  in  his.  A  touch 
of  sympathy  sufficed  to  effect  a  change  upon  his 
quick,  impressionable  nature.  From  a  depth  of 
despondency  his  spirit  suddenly  rose  upon  the 
bright  ephemeral  wings  of  hope. 

"  Would  nothing  change  your  love,  Marion  ?  " 

«  No.     No.     Nothing  !  " 

"  Not  even  disgrace  ?  " 

"  I  should  know  you  did  not  deserve  it." 

"  But  if  it  were  beyond  all  question.  Open  to 
everybody's  eyes  and  clear  as  the  day  ?  " 

"  I  should  say  it  happened  in  the  past,  and  that 
you  began  afresh  from  to-day." 

He  pressed  her  to  his  heart.  His  kisses  were 
interspersed  with  wild  ejaculations  of  extravagant 
praise  and  passionate  love.  She  was  an  angel !  his 
guiding  star  !  his  love !  his  hope  !  his  saviour  ! 
From  that  moment  everything  should  be  changed. 


154  "Love  and  Quiet  Life" 

She  had  lifted  him  out  of  the  mire,  and  would 
protect  him  against  himself  He  had  still  enough 
— with  care.  Or  they  might  go  abroad  and  live  in 
affluence ;  and  he  would  worship  her  as  his  good 
angel,  to  the  day  of  his  death. 

This  quick  transition  from  self-reproach  to  con- 
fidence made  a  deep  impression  upon  Marion 
Burt.  She  never  doubted  that  love  might  effect  a 
change  as  great  as  this,  and  greater.  It  was  the 
most  natural  thing  in  the  world,  and  indeed  the 
most  beautiful,  that  woman,  otherwise  so  weak, 
should  shed  upon  mankind  an  influence  as  subtle 
as  the  light.  No  limitation  marred  the  alchemy  of 
love. 

But  the  time  had  passed  quickly  and  she  must 
go.  They  retraced  their  steps  between  the  gorse 
and  ling,  and  he  walked  with  her  along  the  hill-top 
and  down  the  slope  to  the  stile.  There  they 
parted  and  she  hastened  homewards. 

The  sun  was  shining  brightly  on  the  fields,  the 
glistening  hedgerows,  and  the  tall  elm  trees.  The 
spirit  of  spring  beamed  everywhere.  It  rode  upon 
the  fleecy  cloud,  glanced  from  the  brambles 
straggling  over  the  ditch,  and  smiled  upon  the 
fresh  grass.  Even  the  wind  had  no  malice  as  it 
swept  across  the  moor  and  sang  in  the  swaying 
tree-tops.  At  the  foot  of  the  hill,  beneath  the 
rookery,  old    Grammer  Sandboy,  in  her  weather- 


Springtime  155 

stained  frock,  was  picking  up  an  apron-full  of  dead 
sticks,  the  harvest  of  the  early  spring. 

The  girl  tripped  gaily  down  the  hill-side.  Her 
heart  was  never  so  light ;  her  soul  had  never  soared 
with  such  transcendant  freedom.     All  the  loncrino-s 

o        o 

of  her  girlhood,  the  aspirations  of  her  solitary 
rapture,  were  satisfied.  She  was  loved  and 
destined  to  work  the  reformation  of  the  man  who 
loved  her.  The  warmth  of  his  kisses  was  still 
glowing  on  her  cheek.  The  sap  of  a  new  life  was 
stirring  in  her  veins,  and  everything  was  exalted  and 
transformed.  The  birds  sang,  and  she  was  one  of 
them.  She  was  engrafted,  a  vital  part  of  that 
great  cosmos  which  hitherto  she  had  only  looked 
upon  with  eyes  ;  and  the  future  was  a  summer  of 
sunshine  and  flowers.  In  this  universal  change 
her  lover's  failings  were  cast  off,  like  the  parched 
leaves  on  the  oak  sapling  in  the  hedgerow.  Had 
not  every  son  of  Adam  his  sin  ?  Moses  his 
moment  of  folly,  and  David  a  fault  so  fearful  that 
she  shuddered  to  think  upon  it  ?  And  was  there 
not  the  parable  of  the  prodigal  which  her  father  so 
often  loved  to  read  ?  Yes,  her  father  would  learn  of 
Mr.  Hensley's  reformation,  and  approve  their  love. 
The  old  woman,  sometimes  stooping,  thei^ 
scanning  the  ground  and  advancing  a  few  steps, 
had  drawn  near  to  the  path.  Her  apron  was 
almost  full,  and  she  stood  up  to  rest  awhile.     A 


156  "Love  and  Quiet  Life" 

crafty  smile  crept  over  her  wrinkled  face,  and  as 
Marion  came  by  she  hobbled  a  few  paces  forward 
and  stood  in  the  way. 

"  Ha !  There's  noo  call  to  be  afeard,"  piped  the 
crone  in  a  thin,  quavering  voice.  "  There's  noo 
more  harm  in  the  wold  witch  than  in  many  a 
Kurstian.  Shall  she  tell  'ee  a  secret  ?  She  could 
speak  the  word  that  'ud  burn  up  your  heart  like  a 
flower  in  a  vrost,  if  she  wer'  a-minded.  She  could 
turn  your  blood  so  thin  as  water,  and  your  cheek 
so  white  as  a  maggot  for  a  twelvemonth  an'  a 
day " 

Frightened  at  these  words,  which  sounded  so 
much  like  menace,  Marion  stepped  aside  ;  but  the 
old  woman  extended  her  long,  lean  hand,  brown 
and  hard  as  old  unpolished  oak,  and  laid  it  on  the 
girl's  wrist. 

"  I  tell  'ee,  the  old  Grammer  Zandboy  'ud  walk 
to  Bridgetown  barefoot  to  do  'ee  a  good  turn,  for 
the  sake  o'  your  purty  face  as  you  do  walk  down 
street.  But  'tes  beyon'  wit  to  teach  wisdom  to  a 
maid  in  love.  She've  a-got  ears  but  for  one  voice 
an'  noo  eyes  to  look  avore.  There'll  be  a  dark 
day  avore  the  winter  do  come  back.  An'  I'll  tell 
'ee  a  word  to  lay  up  in  your  heart,  an'  think  upon 
in  your  old  age  when  you've  a-got  time  to  think. 
Double-wooed  an'  never  wed.  That's  your  lot  an' 
your   luck.     An'  better  luck,    too,  than    to  volley 


Springtime  157 

your  own  way.     Double- wooed    an'  never    wed — 
one  in  house  and  one  on  hill.     Double-wooed  an' 


never 

Her  eye  caught  sight  of  a  moss-covered  stick, 
and  still  muttering  these  words  she  hobbled  away. 

The  girl  walked  quickly  on,  but  all  her  gaiety 
was  gone.  The  meaningless  phrase  kept  ringing 
in  her  ears  and  she  trembled  with  excitement  as  if 
it  were  from  fear.  "  One  in  the  house  and  one  on 
the  hill."  There  was  an  aptness  in  the  foolish 
saying,  an  alliterative  point  with  more  force  than 
truth  ;  and  although  she  was  not  superstitious,  it 
overshadowed  and  oppressed  her  spirit  like  a  cloud. 
Frightened  and  preoccupied,  she  failed  to  observe 
her  father  waiting  in  the  road  beside  the  willow 
trees. 

"  Where  have  you  been,  Marion  ? "  he  said. 
"  As  Mr.  Percival  went,  we  saw  you  on  the  hill 
and  I  walked  down  to  meet  you.  Who  was  talk- 
ing to  you  ?  " 

"  In  the  road  I  met  Mr.  Hensley." 

It  was  the  truth  and  she  answered  carelessly, 
yet  her  heart  sank  self-accused  of  prevarication. 

Her  father  walked  a  few  steps  in  silence.  "  I  do 
not  like  that  young  man,"  he  said  thoughtfully ; 
and  she  understood  the  disapproval  troubling  his 
mind  although  unexpressed. 

It  was  only  a  passing  cloud.     "  I  did  not  know 


158  "Love  and  Quiet  Life" 

you  were  going  out,"  he  continued  with  a  smile. 
"  Mr.  Percival  wanted  to  see  you.  He  had  some- 
thing to  suggest — a  sort  of  proposal  to  make  to 
you.  But  he  shall  tell  you  for  himself  I  will  not 
impart  his  secrets." 


CHAPTER   XIV 

GIRT-GRAN-D ADDER  A-TOOKT 

After  the  beans  the  spring  barley,  and  Johnny- 
was  moved  to  the  ground  at  the  back  of  the 
rookery.  There  was  a  sandy  bank  with  a  double 
blackthorn  hedge  at  the  top  ;  and  the  bank  was 
covered  with  primroses,  the  thorns  with  blossoms 
as  sweet  and  white  as  maidens'  frocks  upon  May- 
day. It  was  in  this  paradise  that  Johnny  com- 
menced that  career  of  iniquity  which  many  people 
predicted  would  terminate  on  the  gallows. 

The  days  were  lengthening  out.  A  full-fledged 
rook,  fallen  from  the  nest,  lay  dead  beneath  the 
elm  tree.  The  sun  was  high,  and  at  midday 
Johnny  used  to  lie  on  his  back  upon  the  bank, 
gaze  into  the  infinite  sky  and  yodle  by  the  hour. 
Then  he  stopped  to  think  of  Girt-gran-dadder's 
stories  and  the  fool.  The  old  man  had  once 
possessed  a  power  of  vivid  narrative,  and  Johnny 
in  his  day-dream  clearly  pictured  the  hero  in  his 
parti-coloured  garment  and  conical  hat.  It  became 
the  desire  of  his  life  to  see  a  fool.  Oh  !  if  he  could 
only  "  zee  a  fool,"     Then  he  fell  asleep. 

One  day  soon    after    noon   Mr.   John    Culliford 


i6o  "Love  and  Quiet  Life" 

came  riding  round  the  farm.  He  stopped  at  the 
gate,  glanced  high  and  low,  peered  into  the  elm 
trees,  and  craned  his  neck  to  look  into  the  ditch ; 
but  nowhere  was  Johnny  to  be  seen.  It  was  a 
natural  inference,  based  upon  a  knowledge  of  the 
depravities  of  boyhood,  that  some  devilish  mischief 
was  in  course  of  perpetration ;  and  Mr.  John 
Culliford  deliberately  dismounted,  hooked  the  rein 
over  the  gate-post,  climbed  stealthily  over  the  gate, 
and  looked  around.  After  a  brief  search  he  found 
Johnny.  The  boy's  yellow  head,  freckled  face, 
and  weather-stained  smock  were  scarcely  dis- 
tinguishable from  the  sandy  bank  upon  which  he 
lay,  sleeping  with  a  barefaced  assumption  of 
innocence,  which  made  Mr.  John  Culliford's  blood 
boil  with  indignation.  In  Mr.  Culliford's  hand 
was  a  little  ground-ash  stick,  and  he  walked  across 
a  corner  of  the  barley  on  tiptoe. 

Of  what  transpired  there  remains  only  Mr.  John 
Culliford's  brief  account. 

He  "  woke  un." 

As  Mrs.  Culliford  afterwards  said  to  Mrs.  Carew, 
"  'Tes  the  most  laziest  young  rascal  that  ever  trod 
out  shoe-leather.     But  Measter  woke  un." 

"I'll  be  boun'  Mr.  Culliford  woke  un.  An' 
quite  right  too  ;  for  to  my  mind  the  Zandboys  be 
nothen  but  a  disgrace  to  Zutton,  all  the  lot  o'  'em," 
replied  Mrs.  Carew. 


GiRT-GRAN-DADDER    A-TOOKT  l6l 

This  version  of  the  affair  received  indirect  corro- 
boration from  Abraham,  who  was  up-top  o'  parish 
to  the  time.  He  heard  Mr,  John  Culliford  "  had 
a-woked  zomebody  to  rights,  sure  'nough,"  but  he 
"couldn'  zay  of  his  own  knowledge  that  'twer' 
Johnny," 

"  He  woke  un,  you  mid  depen',"  agreed  Josiah 
in  a  tone  of  mild  but  firm  conviction. 

The  suddenness  of  this  awakening  increased  the 
restlessness  of  Johnny's  spirit,  and  he  became  more 
than  ever  discontented  with  the  narrowness  of  his 
experience.  But  one  day  a  procession  of  caravans 
in  orange-chrome  and  red  went  crawling  along 
the  hill-top.  It  was  an  annual  occurrence,  and 
Girt-grandadder  had  often  traced  the  route  from 
fair  to  fair,  and  town  to  town,  with  minute  ac- 
curacy. Invariably  they  stayed  a  night  at  Upton 
to  give  a  performance  upon  the  village  green,  and 
thence  to  Cheddar  for  the  May-fair,  Reports  of 
this  glorious  show  sometimes  reached  Sutton,  but 
the  inhabitants  never  went.  Doubtless  their  self- 
denial  was  prompted  by  jealousy  of  Upton,  but 
they  declared,  with  suspicious  unanimity,  that  if 
the  whole  boiling  o'  it  was  ever  to  draw  up  in 
Sutton  Street  they  wouldn't  so  much  as  put  their 
heads  outside  the  door  to  look  at  it.  But  Johnny 
ran  up  into  the  road  to  watch  the  pageant  pass. 
Solemnly  it  rolled  by,     A  man  wearing  a  moleskin 

II 


1 62  "Love  and  Quiet  Life" 

waistcoat  was  sitting   on  one  of   the  shafts,  who 
Johnny  thought  must  be  the  fool. 

The  boy  followed  a  short  distance,  until  fear  of 
Mr.  Culliford  drove  him  back  to  the  primrose 
bank.  A  restless  craving  to  slip  away  to  Upton 
kept  him  wide  awake  that  afternoon ;  but  the  risk 
was  too  great.  At  evening  the  blaring  of  trumpets 
and  the  distant  booming  of  the  big  drum  stirred 
his  courage  to  the  sticking  point,  and  under  cover 
of  the  dusk  he  ran  across  the  hill.  The  caravans 
had  been  drawn  up  in  a  right-angle  under  the 
shelter  of  Upton  elms.  Torches  were  flaring, 
flashing  intermittent  glory  on  the  square  of  white- 
washed cottages  around  the  green.  All  Upton  was 
out  of  doors.  The  drum  beat  again.  There  was 
a  universal  rush  towards  a  centre  of  dazzlincf  licrht 
in  contrast  with  which  the  nut-stall  and  the  shoot- 
ing-standing were  cast  into  gloom.  Men  shouted, 
women  laughed  and  screamed,  and  children 
clamoured  to  be  lifted  upon  their  fathers'  shoulders. 
Then  followed  the  silence  of  expectation  as  a  ring 
of  eager  faces  gathered  around  the  stage. 

Curiosity  triumphed  over  shyness,  and  Johnny 
gradually  pushed  his  way  into  the  front. 

At  last  the  supreme  moment  came.  A  curtain 
at  the  back  was  pushed  aside,  and  a  god  in 
spangles  stepped  upon  the  scene.  He  turned 
somersaults,  and   walked  round,  head  downwards, 


GiRT-GRAN-DADDER    A-TOOKT  1 63 

on  his  hands.  The  applause  was  rapturous.  Then 
the  fool  bowed,  advanced  to  the  front  of  the  stage, 
and  explained  that  all  he  wanted  was  to  borrow 
a  good-looking  boy  for  just  five  minutes.  The 
same  should  be  returned  right-side-up  with  a 
ha'penny  in  his  palm.  Without  hesitation  he 
singled  out  Johnny,  and  called  him  by  his  Christian 
name. 

"  Come,  Johnny ;  don't  stan'  there  wi'  your 
vinger  in  your  mouth." 

Still  the  boy  had  not  courage  to  accept  the 
greatness  so  unexpectedly  forced  upon  him. 

Burning  to  distinguish  himself,  he  yet  lacked 
the  self-assurance  necessary  for  public  life.  He 
longed  to  go,  but  dared  not.  Then  somebody 
from  behind  gave  him  a  push  ;  and,  turning  to 
expostulate,  he  caught  sight  of  his  father's  fustian 
jacket  elbowing  its  way  amongst  the  people. 
Like  a  frightened  rabbit  he  burrowed  through  the 
crowd,  fled  across  the  green,  and  faded  into  the 
darkness. 

But  along  the  lonely  road  and  down  the  hill-side 
the  splendour  of  that  dazzling  scene  danced  like 
a  will-o'-the-wisp  before  the  boy's  imagination. 
The  reality  surpassed  the  richest  recollections  of 
Girt-gran-dadder.  His  courage  rose.  He  pictured 
himself  ascending  the  stage  amidst  deafening 
plaudits — another    time.      Ambition    soared.     He 


164  "Love  and  Quiet  Life" 

conceived  the  happy  idea  of  becoming  himself  a 
fool.  Then  he  ran  with  all  his  might,  fearing  that 
his  father,  taking  some  other  way,  might  arrive 
home  before  him. 

He  listened  a  moment  at  the  window-shutter 
beside  Girt-gran-dadder's  outdoor  seat.  He  could 
hear  no  voices,  only  the  sobs  of  the  bellows  as  his 
mother  blew  the  fire  with  sharp,  impatient  jerks. 
It  sounded  ominous,  but  he  softly  raised  the  latch 
and  went  inside. 

Girt-gran-dadder  and  Grammer  were  sitting  on 
either  side  of  the  hearth.  His  mother,  in  front, 
her  back  towards  the  door,  quickly  turned  her 
head  at  the  creaking  of  the  hinge. 

"  Zo  here's  the  young  husburd,"  she  cried,  with 
rapid  crescendo  "  an'  his  vather  gone  to  Upton  to 
look  a'ter  un.  Though  only  the  wold  Nick  hiszelf 
do  know  when  he'll  be  back  now  he's  once  out  o' 
the  house.  Not  till  midnight,  I'll  go  bail,  an'  put 
more  down  his  droat  in  a  hour  than  he'll  earn  in 
a  wick  o'  Zundays.  But  goo  on  up  out  o'  the  way. 
He'll  dust  your  jacket  vor  'ee  purty  tidy  come 
marnen.  Git  on  up  out  o'  the  way.  Take  your 
teddies  an'  git  on  1  p  out  o'  the  way." 

The  boy,  only  too  glad  of  an  opportunity  to 
escape,  crept  upstairs  without  a  word. 

At  daybreak,  but  before  the  village  was  astir,  the 


GlKT-GRAN-DADDER    A-TOOKT  1 65 

cottage  door  stealthily  opened,  and  Johnny  peeped 
up  and  down  the  village  street.  Nobody  was 
about,  and  he  passed  the  garden  and  out  of  the 
hatch  without  detection.  But  instead  of  going  to 
carol  upon  his  arable  ground,  he  took  the  contrary 
direction,  through  the  parish  and  into  the  lane. 
He  was  afraid  some  early  riser  might  meet  him 
and  be  inquisitive  about  the  small  bundle  in  his 
hand  ;  and  in  the  seclusion  of  the  hollow  he  ran. 
Then  over  the  down,  leaving  Upton  away  upon 
the  right,  still  lying  asleep,  with  never  a  sound  and 
never  a  breath  of  smoke.  And  so  for  miles  amongst 
the  golden  gorse  until  he  reached  the  Cheddar  road. 
By  that  time  the  sun  was  well  up,  and  he  sat  to  rest 
in  the  long  shadow  of  an  old  milestone. 

At  half-past  five,  finding  the  cottage  door  open, 
Mrs.  Sandboy  stepped  briskly  into  the  road.  Her 
anger  against  Johnny  was  swallowed  in  the  depth 
of  her  virtuous  indignation  against  John.  No 
doubt  the  boy  had  gone  "  to  hidey."  Her  heart 
softened.  Her  only  thought  was  to  give  him  his 
breakfast  and  get  him  away  to  work.  She  im- 
patiently secured  a  lock  of  red  hair  which  fluttered 
in  the  morning  breeze,  and  with  a  mysterious  per- 
suasiveness, called, — 

"  Jack  ! " 

Receiving  no  reply,  she  returned  to  the  garden, 
looked    into    the    little    back    house,    behind    the 


1 66  "Love  and  Quiet  Life" 

faggots,  and  up  in  the  lilac-bush.  Irritated  at  not 
finding  the  boy  in  any  of  these  obvious  hiding- 
places,  she  called  again, — 

"Jack,  you  little  fool.  Come  out  avore  your 
vather  do  come  down.  Jack  !  't  'ull  sar  'ee  well- 
right  if  thee  vather  do  catch  thee." 

At  a  quarter  to  six,  John  Sandboy,  who  had 
been  more  merry  than  wise  on  the  previous  night, 
and  with  the  morning  inclined  to  be  penitential 
and  severe  on  folly,  stood  in  the  doorway. 

"Jack!" 

"Lef  the  bwoy  alone,"  cried  the  mother.  "There's 
wo'se  fools  'an  he." 

"Just  let  I  vind  the  little  stick,"  menaced  John 
between  his  teeth. 

It  was  easier  to  find  the  stick  than  Johnny. 
They  inquired  of  the  labourer  passing  to  his  work, 
and  of  Josiah  on  his  way  to  the  moor  to  fetch  in 
his  cows  ;  but  nobody  had  seen  the  delinquent.  He 
was  not  in  his  field.  "  He've  a-urned  off  to  Upton 
again,"  cried  the  father,     "  Now  I'll  jus' " 

"  No  you  wunt,"  interrupted  Mrs.  Sandboy. 

Then  Sutton  became  agitated  with  a  pleasant 
excitement.  Everybody  came  to  inquire — suggest 
— or  to  enjoy  the  enormity  of  Johnny's  guilt.  Mr. 
John  Culliford  came  down  on  his  cob,  and  talked 
loudly  by  the  garden-hatch.  Abraham,  Josiah, 
Mrs.  Carew,  all  Sutton  ran  out  of  doors  to  hear  the 


GiRT-GRAN-DADDER    A-TOOKT  1 67 

farmer  threaten.  "  I'll  dust  the  jacket  o'  un,"  cried 
Mr.  John  CulHford.  "  I'll  warr'nt  he  will,"  said  all 
the  parish.  "  He  will,"  added  Josiah.  For  to  see 
Mr.  John  Culliford  with  a  face  so  red  as  a  turkey- 
cock  was  so  good  as  a  play.  And  Mrs.  Sandboy 
was  a  goodish  bit  put  out ;  to  be  sure  she  was — 
poor  'ooman.  Simple  souls  of  Sutton  !  who  found 
in  real  life  their  never-ceasing  drama.  Even  Girt- 
gran-dadder,  dimly  conscious  of  calamity  afoot, 
laid  a  palsied  hand  to  his  deaf  ear  and  tried  to 
listen. 

By  noon  it  was  an  accepted  fact  that  the  boy 
could  not  be  hiding,  but  had  run  away  ;  and  neigh- 
bours who  looked  in,  touched  by  the  old  man's 
look  of  inquiry,  shouted  to  him  again  and  again. 

"  Let  I,"  said  Josiah,  making  a  trumpet  of  his 
hands. 

"Johnny's  gone." 

"  Eh,  eh  ?  Cow's  harn.  Dear  life  then  !  Cow's 
harn." 

"  No,  no,  Girt-gran-dadder.  Johnny's  gone — 
gone." 

A  fleeting  intelligence  flitted  over  the  old  man's 
face. 

"  Eh  ?  gone  !  Dear,  dear,"  he  murmured.  "  Too 
young.  Too  young.  An'  he  wur  the  light  o'  my 
eyes — the  light  o'  my  eyes." 

Impossible   to   reach  his  understanding !      The 


i68  "Love  and  Quiet  Life" 

most  persistent  gave,  up  the  attempt  in  despair, 
and  left  him  in  peace,  basking  in  his  arm-chair. 

But  soon  the  sky  began  to  put  on  mourning. 
The  sun  went  in.  A  cloud,  as  black  as  a  hearse 
came  looming  above  the  hill-top.  The  wind 
sighed  ;  and  a  great  raindrop  struck  the  window- 
pane. 

"  We  mus'  have  in  the  wold  man,  I  spwose,"  said 
Mrs.  Sandboy  discontentedly.  "  He'll  get  so  cold 
as  a  stwone  else." 

But  the  old  man  was  as  cold  as  clay ! 

On  the  testimony  of  the  weather-beaten  stone  at 
Johnny's  head  it  was  fourteen  miles  to  Cheddar  ; 
and  he  meant  to  wait  until  the  caravans  had 
passed,  and  then  to  follow  them  at  a  respectful 
distance.  The  road  was  straight,  and  he  could  see 
either  way  for  miles.  The  furze  was  in  flower  ; 
cobwebs  glistened  in  the  sun  ;  and  he  sat  upon  the 
grass  and  quenched  his  thirst  with  sorrel  leaves. 
He  had  no  fear  of  pursuit.  The  place  was  sacred 
to  solitude.  A  hare  went  lopping  along  the  road 
without  minding  him,  and  a  curlew  whistled  over- 
head. 

Hours  passed.  The  caravans  did  not  come,  and 
at  last  he  fell  asleep.  Then  in  the  distance  arose 
a  cloud  of  white  dust,  and  a  coach-and-four  came 
whirling  along   the   road  from  Sutton.     Drawing 


GiRT-GRAN-DADDER    A-TOOKT  1 69 

near,  it  went  more  slowly,  and  the  gentleman  who 
drove  pointed  with  his  whip  to  the  blue  sea  far 
away  beyond  the  yellow  gorse.  As  they  passed, 
catching  sight  of  a  heap  of  smock  and  corduroy 
amongst  the  ranker  grasses  which  fringed  the  king's 
highway,  he  humorously  caught  Johnny  a  cut  with 
the  whip.  Simultaneously  a  servant  in  livery  blew 
a  blast  upon  his  horn.  Perplexed  and  frightened, 
Johnny  sprang  to  his  feet  as  if  he  had  been 
answering  the  last  trump. 

The  people  on  the  coach  all  looked  back  and 
laughed,  whilst  the  boy  stood  in  the  road  and 
stared  at  them.  The  driver  wore  a  drab  coat  with 
large  buttons,  and  beside  him  sat  a  lady.  There 
were  two  other  ladies,  both  quite  young,  and 
several  gentlemen  ;  amongst  whom  one  in  par- 
ticular, a  little,  sharp-featured  man  with  a  shaven 
face,  attracted  Johnny's  attention.  And  surely 
the  portly  figure  at  the  back  of  the  coach  could  be 
no  other  than  Mr.  Poltimore  himself ! 

The  suddenness  of  the  awakening,  the  recogni- 
tion of  this  familiar  but  awe-inspiring  personage, 
and  the  discomfort  of  hunger,  all  depressed 
Johnny.  He  had  come  out  in  the  morning  as 
fresh  as  a  daisy  and  full  of  hope,  convinced  that 
he  should  find  immediate  work  as  a  fool.  But 
having  slept  upon  the  idea,  he  found  it  a  little 
crumpled.     The  caravans  had  not  come.     It  was 


170  "Love  and  Quiet  Life" 

fourteen  miles  to  Cheddar,  and  the  road  un- 
known. 

Upon  mature  consideration  it  appeared  impera- 
tive to  return  to  Sutton  ;  but  modestly,  and  with 
the  shades  of  evening,  for  although  he  felt  certain 
of  a  warm  reception,  one  day's  absence  cannot 
deserve  a  triumph.  Meanwhile,  he  must  do  some- 
thing for  a  living.  A  bumble-bee  went  flying 
across  the  road,  and  he  knocked  it  down  with  his 
hat,  to  steal  its  honey-bag.  Wandering  upon  the 
down,  in  a  thorn-bush  he  found  a  thrush's  nest, 
with  four  blue  eggs.  These  he  broke  in  the  palm 
of  his  hand  and  swallowed  the  yellow  yolks. 
Then  he  heard  voices  and  laughter  quite  close  to 
him,  and  crawling  through  an  overhanging  brake, 
he  saw  some  of  the  party  of  the  coach  busily 
unpacking  a  luncheon-basket  in  the  seclusion  of 
an  abandoned  gravel-pit.  Others  walked  away 
over  the  down.  The  gentleman  who  had  been 
driving  and  another — it  was  Mr.  Poltimore — were 
standing  apart,  engaged  in  conversation.  They  were 
just  below,  and  Johnny  could  hear  every  word. 

'•'  Then  everybody  in  Sutton  is  safe,  Poltimore  ?  " 

'  Certainly,  my  Lord." 

"  What  cottage  is  that  at  the  entrance  to  the 
Village?" 

"  Oh,  that — that's  a  place  a  man  called  Sandboy 
put  up,  my  Lord." 


GiRT-GRAN-DADDER    A-TOOKT  171 

"  Got  a  vote  ?  " 

"  Oh  no,  my  Lord.  Very  infirm  old  man.  We 
let  him  put  up  a  cottage  some  years  ago,  my  Lord. 
Mr.  Culliford  wanted  him  there." 

"You've  got  an  acknowledgment,  Poltimore,  I 
suppose  ?  " 

"  I  think  you  may  trust  me  for  that,  my  Lord." 

Mr.  Poltimore  was  ever  so  magnificent,  for  ob- 
sequiousness only  added  to  the  importance  of  that 
great  man.  A  raised-pie  had  just  been  taken  from 
the  basket,  when  Johnny  found  himself  suddenly 
gripped  by  the  small  of  the  leg  and  dragged  out 
of  the  brake.  He  struggled  and  kicked  without 
avail.  Thorns  and  brambles  pulled  his  smock  over 
his  head,  rendering  him  powerless  ;  until  lightly 
lifted  to  his  feet,  his  raiment  readjusted,  Johnny 
stood  disclosed  clutching  his  bundle  in  his  left 
hand.  A  group  of  gentlefolk  surrounded  him. 
Attracted  by  the  laughter,  his  Lordship  and  Mr. 
Poltimore  came  strolling  out  of  the  gravel-pit. 

"  How  d'you  do  ?  How  d'you  do  ?  "  cordially 
cried  the  little  shaven  man,  taking  the  boy's  hand 
in  the  style  of  a  genial  host.  "  So  glad  you  came. 
We  had  almost  given  you  up.     Take  a  seat." 

He  pointed  to  a  clump  of  gorse  in  the  form  of 
a  settee,  and  all  the  company  laughed.  They 
laughed  at  everything  the  little  man  did,  and 
louder  still  when  he  did  nothing  ;  because  it  was 


172  "Love  and  Quiet  Life" 

not  so  much  what  he  did,  but  the  way  he  did  it. 
Johnny  looked  at  the  prickles  and  thought  him  a 
fool. 

"  What  have  you  got  in  your  bundle  ?  " 

The  inquiry  was  confidential,  and  everybody 
roared.  But  Johnny  was  silent,  whilst  the  little 
man  appropriated  his  property,  deftly  untied  the 
red  handkerchief,  and  held  up  a  pair  of  Sunday 
boots. 

"  They  do  not  want  tapping,"  he  said,  looking 
critically  at  the  hob-nailed  soles.  Then,  suddenly 
becoming  deeply  serious,  he  handed  them  back 
with  the  air  of  a  Colonial  Bishop  bestowing  a  Bible. 
"Take  them,  my  boy — take  them  to  your  dear 
mother." 

"  What's  your  name,  boy  ?  " 

"  Tell  his  Lordship  your  name,  boy,"  said  Mr. 
Poltimore  pompously. 

"  John  Zan'boy,  Zir." 

"  Where  do  you  live  ?  " 

"  To  Zutton,  Zir." 

"  Whose  house  do  you  live  in  ?  " 

"  Girt-gran-dadder's,  Zir." 

"  Not  his  own  house,  boy." 

"  Ees  'tes,  Zir.     He  put  un  up,  Zir." 

His  Lordship  laughed,  and  Mr.  Poltimore  looked 
uncomfortable.  But  the  little  man  set  everybody 
at  rest.     Mounting  an  anthill,  he  delivered  an  im- 


GiRT-GRAN-DADDER    A-TOOKT  I  73 

promptu  political  oration  of  which  Johnny  was 
the  subject.  He  referred  to  him  as  the  future 
electorate.  He  derided,  menaced,  and  cajoled 
him  :  described  him  as  the  Charybdis  which  would 
whirl  his  native  land  into  revolution,  and  the  Scylla 
upon  which  the  country  must  some  day  split. 
And  Johnny  listened  with  his  mouth  open,  just  as 
if  he  had  been  in  church. 

"  But  how,"  asked  the  orator,  indicating  Johnny, 
with  his  forefinger,  "  how  are  we  to  cope  with  this 
hydra-headed  monster  which  threatens  to  destroy 
society  ?  My  friends,  but  one  way  is  open  to  us. 
We  myst  undermine  his  future  independence  by 
inviting  him  to  lunch." 

The  suggestion  was  received  with  acclamation. 
"  Lunch  !     Yes.     Ask  him  to  lunch." 

They  led  Johnny  into  the  gravel-pit,  reluctant, 
but  his  power  of  resistance  paralysed  by  the  im- 
pressive presence  of  Mr.  Poltimore.  They  en- 
throned him  on  a  broken  wheel-barrow.  A  gravel- 
shelf  was  the  dais,  the  overhanging  thorn  a  canopy, 
and  under  the  title  of  King  Demos  they  fed  him 
from  the  raised-pie  and  feted  him  with  champagne 
His  Lordship  laughed — and  Mr.  Poltimore  laughed 
too.  His  Lordship  drank  to  Johnny — and  Mr. 
Poltimore  drank  also.  But  Johnny  accepted  both 
food  and  homage  with  the  gravity  of  an  Indian 
chief. 


174  "Love  and  Quiet  Liee" 

"  Hark  !    What  is  that  ?  " 

"  It  is  undoubtedly  thunder,  my  Lord,"  rephcd 
Mr.  Poltimore. 

"  We  shall  have  a  storm.  I  think  we  had  better 
get  back  to  the  coach.     It  is  raining  already." 

There  was  a  flash  of  lightning,  a  nearer  clap  of 
thunder,  and  big  rain-drops  began  to  fall.  The 
ladies  were  in  consternation,  and  hurried  to  the 
coach  for  wraps.  The  men  rapidly  repacked  the 
baskets  and  rati  with  them  across  the  down.  In 
five  minutes  the  place  was  as  quiet  as  of  old,  and 
the  coach  a  mere  speck  upon  the  distant  road. 

Johnny  lost  heart.  He  had  suffered  hunger,  and 
the  laughter  of  a  strange  race.  Thunder  he  could 
never  abide ;  and  the  caravans  had  not  come. 
The  rain  came  down  in  torrents,  trickling  into 
yellow  pools  in  the  bottom  of  the  pit  ;  and  he 
ran  out,  and  crept  into  the  gorse,  and  was  afraid. 

The  storm  passed  quickly  over.  But  it  was 
evening  before  Johnny  ventured  home  to  Sutton, 
and  then  he  loitered  in  the  twilight  by  the  church- 
yard wall.  Although  it  was  late,  villagers  clustered 
in  groups  upon  the  causeway,  or  went  flitting  to 
and  fro  across  the  road  like  shades.  He  felt  sure 
they  were  talking  of  him.  Then  some  one  went 
into  his  cottage  ;  and  he  thought  the  folk  had 
seen  him  and  sent  to  tell. 

But  nothing  happened  as  he  anticipated.     His 


GiRT-GRAN-DADDER    A-TOOKT  I  75 

father  did  not  go  round  the  fields  to  appear  below 
him  and  cut  off  his  retreat  His  mother  did  not 
come  traipsing  down  the  street,  the  Httle  stick 
ostentatiously  hidden  under  her  white  apron. 
There  was  something  very  strange  in  Sutton, 

From  beneath  the  yew  tree  in  Josiah's  garden 
came  the  sound  of  Mrs.  Clarke's  voice,  moralising 
for  his  benefit. 

"Why,  an'  if  there  idden  that  good-for-nothen 
little  twoad  Johnny  a'ter  all,"  she  said. 

"An'  zo  'tes,"  chimed  in  a  neighbour,  quickly 
enough  to  claim  part  of  the  merit  of  the  discovery. 

"  'Twur  terr'ble  wrong  for  childern  to  gie  their 
poor  parents  so  much  trouble." 

"  Zo  'twur." 

"  'T  'ud  sar  they  well  right  if  their  vathers  an' 
mothers  was  to  shut  the  door  upon  they." 

"  Zoo  't'ood." 

"  But  't'ull  all  come  back  to  'em  zome  day." 

"  Zoo  't'ooll." 

"  Ay.  Do  come  back  in  thought  in  a'ter  life  zo 
zure  as  the  light." 

"  Zoo  do." 

Then  she  took  Johnny  by  the  hand  to  lead  him 
home,  and  he  felt  the  mystery  of  these  strange 
manners.  The  earth  smelt  sweet  after  the  rain. 
A  lilac  bough,  still  dripping  wet,  had  been  beaten 
down  upon   the  hatch,  and   the  gilawfers  planted 


176  "Love  and  Quiet  Life" 

for  the  bees  filled  the  air  with  fragrance.  But  the 
upstair  windows,  small  and  square  under  the  over- 
hanging thatch,  were  as  black  as  death  ;  and 
underneath,  by  the  row  of  bee-butts,  dimly  visible 
through  the  dusk,  crouched  Grammer. 

"  She's  a  tellen  the  bees." 

Josiah's  wife,  still  holding  the  boy's  hand,  stood 
in  the  path,  silent  and  respectful,  as  if  fearing  to 
interrupt  a  ceremony. 

The  old  woman  passed  from  butt  to  butt,  laying 
her  lips  close  to  the  mouth  of  each. 

"  The  wold  man's  a-gone,"  she  said.  "  The  wold 
man's  a-tookt  to  last." 

Mrs.  Clarke  lifted  the  latch  without  knocking, 
like  a  person  fearing  to  awaken  a  sleeper.  Girt- 
gran-dadder's  knob-headed  sticks  were  lying  on 
his  empty  chair. 

"  Here's  Johnny  a-comed  back,"  whispered  the 
neighbour. 

"  But  some  '11  never  come  back." 

And  nobody  was  angry. 

"  The  bwoy  mus'  be  main  an*  hungry,"  sighed 
his  mother. 


CHAPTER  XV 

MR.    PERCIVALS  PROPOSAL 

From  that  day  in  spring  when  Marion  found  her 
father  awaiting  her  by  the  willow  trees,  a  change 
was  noticeable  in  his  demeanour  towards  her.  He 
watched  her  with  a  solicitude  quite  womanly  in  its 
tenderness,  but  without  giving  the  slightest  indi- 
cation of  its  foundation.  Her  quick  sensibility 
detected  the  presence  of  some  hidden  cogitation, 
which  delicacy  forbade  him  to  disclose,  but  whether 
prompted  by  hope  or  fear  she  could  not  tell.  Some- 
times she  thought  he  had  learnt  of  her  love  for 
Hensley,  from  some  source  enjoining  silence  on  his 
sense  of  honour.  Instinctively  her  thoughts  turned 
to  Mr.  Percival,  and  she  regarded  that  energetic 
cleric  with  a  suspicion  and  resentment  which  even 
his  reforms  had  never  awakened  in  the  heart  of  Mr. 
John  Culliford.  Then  she  dismissed  these  doubts 
as  unfounded  and  unfair,  and  a  perception  of  their 
injustice  made  her  more  than  usually  kind  to  this 
frequent  visitor. 

Thus  several  weeks  elapsed  without  affording  a 
single  opportunity  of  meeting  her   lover.     Some- 

;/7  12 


178  "Love  and  Quiet  Life" 

times  of  an  evening  she  saw  him  ride  away  across 
the  moor  to  Bridgetown  ;  and  then  she  would  wait, 
often  until  long  after  midnight,  listening  for  his 
return.  She  heard  the  sound  of  his  horse's  hoofs 
upon  the  road  ;  and  from  her  window,  in  the  moon- 
light or  the  uncertain  dusk  of  a  summer  night,  she 
caught  sight  of  a  horseman  riding  rapidly  between 
the  trees.  He  might  have  been  a  phantom,  so 
quickly  did  he  pass — so  still  and  lonely  did  he 
leave  the  night.  Then  her  heart  sank.  Her  love 
seemed  destined  to  be  all  as  brief  and  ineffectual. 
Doubtless  he  must  misapprehend  her  absence  from 
their  former  haunts.  He  thought  her  fickle,  incon- 
stant, and  these  journeys  to  Bridgetown  were  the 
consequence  of  her  apparent  neglect.  At  times  she 
resolved  to  frankly  tell  her  father,  trusting  all  to  his 
affection  and  the  power  of  her  surpassing  love.  But 
with  the  daylight  her  courage  was  gone  ;  and  upon 
their  walks,  now  more  regular  than  ever,  she  dared 
not  utter  a  single  word. 

The  intended  proposal  of  Mr.  Percival,  to  which 
her  father  had  referred,  remained  a  secret  for  some 
little  time.  Humorously  surrounded  with  mystery, 
a  mighty  scheme  awaiting  maturity,  it  became  the 
subject  of  banter  amongst  them,  until  one  evening 
towards  the  end  of  June  it  was  understood  to  be 
ripe  for  disclosure. 

They  were  all  three  sitting  together  in  a  bower 


Mr.   Percival's  Proposal  179 

amongst  the  filbert  bushes.  Josiah's  milk-cart  had 
driven  home  some  time  ago,  and  the  shouts  of 
children  at  play  came  from  the  village  street.  Also 
the  voices  of  Abraham  and  Mrs.  Clarke  corrobo- 
rating each  other's  opinion  of  the  weather  over  a 
garden  hedge;  then  a  horseman  passed  through  the 
parish  and  across  the  moor.  The  happy  content- 
ment of  a  summer  evening  in  Sutton  was  very  sweet. 

"  I  have  been  contemplating  another  surprise  for 
Sutton,  Miss  Marion,"  said  Mr.  Percival  gaily. 
"  Only  I  am  afraid  of  shocking  Mr.  John  Culliford. 
I  want  to  start  a  school.  Every  child  ought  to  be 
able  to  read  and  write,  although  of  course  that's  a 
wild  idea.  I  expressed  that  opinion  to  Abraham 
Bartlett  the  other  day,  but  he  thinks  that  if  the 
lower  orders  ever  learn  to  write  they  will  become 
addicted  to  forgery." 

He  leant  back  against  the  branches  and  laughed. 
The  necessity  to  build  a  barn  and  granary  had  by 
no  means  diminished  his  zeal,  and  he  was  as  full  of 
hope  as  ever. 

"  He  says  that  reading  is  very  well  for  gentle- 
folk, or  to  look  at  the  almanac,  or  to  see  the 
markets,  or  for  a  parish  clerk  ;  but  if  the  labouring 
classes  could  read  they  wouldn't  have  anything  to 
read,  and  they'd  waste  their  time  reading  it. 
Abraham  says,  '  he  doesn't  read  hiszelf,  not  outzide 
o'  church,  not  once  in  a  twelvemonth.'  " 


i8o  "Love  and  Ouiet  Life" 

His  good-humoured  mimicry  of  Abraham  in- 
creased their  merriment,  and  he  continued  :  — 

"  But  I  do  not  Hve  in  fear  of  Abraham.  The 
man  is  by  nature  obdurate,  but  the  parish  clerk  is 
distinctly  human.  I  have  explained  to  him  the 
dignity  of  his  ancient  office,  and  he  cuts  the  church- 
yard grass.  Moreover,  being  appointed  to  look 
after  my  tithes  with  a  sufficient  emolument,  he 
admits  that  he  never  liked  the  look  of  beasts  in  the 
churchyard,  and  has  no  fear  of  Popery  so  long  as 
he  is  clerk.  Oh  !  they  are  a  good  sort  of  people  ! 
They  will  all  come  round  in  time.  But  Mr.  John 
Culliford  would  scent  Popery  in  a  school  of  mine 
at  once.  Then  Josiah  '  wouldn't  zee  no  call  to 
make  no  change — not  for  the  present,'  and  Josiah's 
little  family  is  evidently  pre-ordained  to  be  the 
backbone  of  a  Sutton  school." 

"  Then  how  do  you  intend  to  manage  ?  "  asked 
the  girl. 

"  I  want  you  to  be  mistress  for  a  time." 

"  Me  ! " 

Mistaking  surprise  for  disinclination,  he  quickly 
went  on  to  explain. 

"  Of  course  I  know  I  am  asking  a  great  favour. 
But  I  would  see  that  it  should  not  be  too  great  a 
tax  upon  you.  And  in  a  very  short  time  we  could 
make  some  new  arrangement." 

"  But  could  I  do  it,  do  you  think  .? " 


Mr.  Percival's  Proposal  i8i 

"  If  only  you  would  condescend  to  do  it,"  he  said, 
with  a  warmth  of  manner  which  almost  startled 
her.  "  But  I  am  afraid  you  will  find  it  chiefly  a 
dull  routine  of  A  B  C." 

From  the  first  moment  she  was  fascinated  with 
the  idea.  She  seized  upon  it  as  a  child  upon  a  new 
game.  She  fell  in  love  with  it  at  first  sight.  Here 
was  an  occupation  for  the  many  hours  of  unpro- 
ductive leisure  which  sometimes  troubled  her  con- 
science— a  relief  from  the  sense  of  uselessness 
which  often  oppressed  her.  Even  the  position  of 
authority  possessed  its  charm,  and  she  already 
pictured  herself  the  beneficent  ruler  of  a  happy 
realm.  Her  only  desire  was  to  begin  at  once.  And 
indeed  they  discovered  little  reason  for  delay, 
although  they  sat  discussing  details  until  the  dusk, 
when  Mr.  Percival  took  his  leave. 

Contrary  to  his  usual  custom,  Mr.  Burt  made  no 
movement  to  go  indoors,  but  drew  Marion  closer 
to  his  side  and  kissed  her.  Although  a  gentle 
tenderness  smiled  through  his  every  action,  such 
demonstration  of  affection  was  rare,  kisses  being 
reserved  as  the  conventional  caress  of  night  and 
morning.  It  was  the  consummation  of  the  solici- 
tude he  had  of  late  displayed,  and  she  remained 
silent,  feeling  sure  that  he  would  presently  speak 
to  her. 

In  the  village  a  woman's  shrill  voice  called  in  a 


i82  "  Love  and  Quiet  Life" 

loitering  child.  Then  the  shutting  of  a  door,  and 
everything  became  still. 

"  The  years  have  rolled  by,"  he  said  quietly. 
"  You  are  a  woman,  and  I — am  getting  an  old  man." 

"  Oh  no,  Father." 

"  More  than  three-score  years.  It  is  well  to  ex- 
amine these  things  calmly,  and  realize  the  truth. 
I  might  be  called  at  any  moment.  Indeed,  I  have 
long  known  it  likely  that  I  may  be  taken  suddenly, 
without  illness  or  warning.  The  thought  has  no 
terrors  for  me  ;  nor  do  I  think  it  wisdom  to  hide 
or  veil  what  science  can  reveal.  My  only  anxiety 
is  about  you,  Marion.  Not  for  your  material  wel- 
fare, for  indeed  you  will  possess  enough  for  all 
your  wants.  But  you  will  be  alone — almost,  I 
might  say,  without  a  friend  in  the  world.  I  should 
be  content  if  I  could  see  you  in  the  keeping  of 
some  good-hearted  man." 

A  sudden  impulse  leapt  within  her  heart,  now,  in 
this  moment  of  mutual  confidence,  to  tell  her  love. 
But  emotion  choked  her  utterance.  She  could  not 
even  find  words  to  express  the  pain  he  was  caus- 
ing her. 

"  You  will  never  know  necessity.  There  is 
money  which  I  have  never  touched.  I  have  asked 
Mr.  Percival  to  act  for  you  ;  and  if  anything  should 
happen,  you  will  give  him  the  key  of  the  old 
bureau — you  like  him  ?  " 


Mr.   Percival's  Proposal  183 

His  manner  was  so  eager  that  it  called  forth  an 
answer  without  hesitation.  The  question  seemed 
to  imply  a  doubt  ;  and,  anxious  to  dismiss  a  sub- 
ject which  gave  her  so  much  distress,  she  spoke 
with  unwonted  feeling  : — 

"  Oh,  yes  ;  I  like  him  very  much." 

"  He  is  a  gentleman  of  good  family,  and  a 
scholar,  though  scarcely  a  ripe  one,"  said  the  old 
man,  weighing  each  word  with  slow  deliberation. 
"  He  is  zealous,  but  not  self-seeking,  and,  I  think, 
has  already  given  evidence  that  he  is  a  good- 
hearted  man." 

His  unconscious  repetition  of  these  words  startled 
her.  She  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  thought,  hitherto 
hidden  and  now  unintentionally  discovered,  which 
was  at  the  spring  of  his  solicitude.  And  then,  as 
if  thinking  aloud,  he  gave  utterance  to  strange  re- 
flections, foreign  to  all  she  knew  of  his  philosophy 
of  life. 

"  Though,  as  to  that,  his  family  is  no  better  than 
my  own.  I  was  myself  a  clergyman  of  the  Estab- 
lished Church  for  many  years."  He  paused,  as  if 
overcoming  an  impulse  to  tell  more  of  his  history. 
"  It  is  time  to  go  indoors, "'he  said,  rising  from  his  seat. 

He  had  been  dreaming  that  Marion  might 
marry  Mr.  Percival. 


The  full  moon  was   high  above  the  moor  when 


184  "Love  and  Quiet  Life" 

Marion  glanced  from  her  window  that  night.  Be- 
tween the  house  and  the  wall  lay  a  gravel-path  and 
a  narrow  shrubbery.  The  light  shone  upon  the 
flat  coping  stones,  and  glistened  upon  the  long 
laurel  leaves  jutting  above  the  wall.  The  elms  by 
the  hill-side  were  still.  Everything  was  silent,  and 
not  a  sigh  came  from  the  willows  or  the  sedge. 

In  contrast  with  this  quietude  of  Nature,  the  girl 
stood  trembling  with  conflicting  emotions.  It  was 
no  time  for  sleep.  Every  sensibility  was  aroused. 
She  gently  raised  the  window  to  drink  the  cool  air, 
laden  with  the  scent  of  pinks  and  wallflowers. 
Her  joy  at  the  anticipation  of  the  school  had 
quickly  fled.  She  could  not  accept  it.  Number- 
less little  attentions  on  the  part  of  Mr.  Percival, 
unheeded  at  the  time,  now  assumed  importance  ; 
and  this  was  the  greatest  of  them  all.  Even  her 
father,  so  single  in  his  thoughts  and  ever  pre-occu- 
pied,  had  noticed  them. 

Suddenly  she  felt  the  full  import  of  her  father's 
references  to  himself.  The  knowledge  so  calmly 
accepted  must  have  been  acquired  upon  those 
journeys  to  the  doctor  at  Bridgetown.  And  with 
what  sweet  resignation  he  spoke  of  it !  The  pathos, 
the  gentleness  of  that  solitary  life  melted  her  heart. 
She  burst  into  tears.  Bitterly  she  accused  herself 
of  deceit ;  and  the  sacrifice  of  love  seemed  easy  in 
the   exaltation  of  her  filial  affection.     She  would 


Mr.   Percival's  PRorosAL  185 

never  act  contrary  to  his  wishes,  never  inflict  upon 
him  a  care.  And  yet,  by  a  sort  of  double  con- 
sciousness, her  ears,  alert  as  sentinels,  were  listen- 
ing for  her  lover's  return. 

She  knew  it  was  he  who  rode  through  the  village 
that  evening  whilst  she  was  in  the  bower.  A  cover- 
let of  white  mist,  spreading  over  the  lower  part  of 
the  moor,  crept  towards  Sutton  like  a  slowly  ad- 
vancing flood.  She  peered  into  this  impenetrable 
cloud.  Between  it  and  the  house  the  dusty  sum- 
mer road  shone  as  clear  as  day.  The  spirit  of  self- 
sacrifice  was  still  upon  her ;  and  she  would  give 
up  all  to  ensure  her  father's  happiness — all  but  the 
fond  joy  of  looking  upon  her  lover  with  the  eyes 
of  love. 

At  last  from  the  distance  came  a  sound,  faint 
but  regular,  like  the  ticking  of  a  watch.  As  it 
drew  near,  her  heart  beat  fast.  He  was  coming  at 
last.  As  his  figure  loomed  out  of  the  mist,  with 
instinctive  modesty  or  fear  she  withdrew,  and  stood 
behind  the  blind,  watching  between  it  and  the 
window-post 

By  the  willows  he  drew  rein,  and  walked  his 
horse  slowly  down  the  white  road.  He  appeared 
to  be  looking  at  the  house ;  and  although  he  had 
never  acted  in  this  way  before,  it  seemed  quite 
natural.  How  well  she  could  understand  such 
love-prompted    loitering  —  his   expression   of  the 


i86  "Love  and  Quiet  Life" 

passion  which  kept  her  there  that  night.  But  by 
the  entrance  to  the  field  in  which  the  Yeomanry 
had  exercised,  he  dismounted,  and  tied  his  horse  to 
the  gate. 

Breathless  she  waited.  Again  she  raised  the 
blind,  and  looked  into  the  night,  and  listened. 
There  came  a  stealthy  step  upon  the  gravel  walk, 
and  he  stood  beneath  the  low  window  quite  close 
to  her. 

"  I  saw  your  shadow  on  the  blind,"  he  whispered. 
"  Come  down  and  talk  to  me." 

"  No,  no,"  she  answered,  with  the  quick  decision 
of  fear. 

"  You  have  forgotten  me.  I  have  not  seen  you 
for  an  age." 

She  sighed  beneath  the  oppression  of  an  un- 
speakable desire  and  the  apprehension  of  some 
unknown  evil. 

"  I  could  not." 

"  You  do  not  love  me.  You  have  left  me,"  he 
said  almost  resentfully.  "  You  could  come  easily 
enough.  Every  one  has  been  asleep  for  hours. 
There  is  no  danger  if  you  cared  to  come.  Come  ! 
Just  for  one  minute,  Marion.  Come !  I  want  to 
speak  to  you." 

His  manner  changing  to  tender  supplication 
touched  her  heart.  She  withdrew  from  the 
window  and  stood   one  moment  by   her  bedside. 


Mr.   Percival's  PRorosAL  187 

It  might  be  done.  She  would  not  pass  her 
father's  room,  which  was  upon  the  other  side 
of  the  house,  remote  from  the  stairs,  and  looking 
out  upon  the  village.  Even  though  love  must 
cease,  she  could  not  belie  her  heart  to  be  unkind. 
She  could  not  leave  him  suddenly  without  a  word. 
Almost  mechanically  she  extinguished  the  candle  ; 
then  noiselessly  stepped  out  into  the  passage. 
Everything  in  the  house  was  still.  Carried  upon 
an  irresistible  flood  of  longing,  she  hastened  down- 
stairs, opened  the  door,  and  went  into  the  porch. 

He  already  waited  there. 

With  the  warmth  of  his  burning  kisses  upon 
her  lips,  all  her  fears  and  sorrows  were  dispelled 
and  forgotten.  Love  was  all-sufficing,  and  took 
possession  of  her  being.  The  very  air  she 
breathed  was  passion  -  laden,  and  her  pulses 
throbbed.  They  sat  upon  the  stone  seat  within 
the  porch  on  the  side  where  the  moonlight  fell, 
and  she  hid  her  face  upon  his  shoulder  with  her 
arms  around  his  neck. 

"  Where  have  you  been  so  long  ?  " 

"  Father  has  always  wanted  me." 

"  But  I  have  wanted  you  also.  I  haven't  been 
able  to  stand  the  place  during  the  last  few  weeks." 

The  words  troubled  her.  They  breathed  that 
spirit  of  instability  which  had  always  been  so  un- 
intelligible, and  jarred  upon  her  senses  like  a  dis- 


i88  "Love  and  Quiet  Life" 

cordant  note  in  the  music  of  love.  She  raised  her 
head  and  looked  at  him.  The  effort  of  thus 
meeting  him  had  overcome  her  timidity  and 
removed  constraint.  Unasked  she  pressed  her  lips 
upon  his  cheek  and  kissed  him  again  and  again. 

"  Marion,"  he  whispered  eagerly ;  "  you  must 
not  forsake  me  like  this.  When  you  come  to  see 
me  I  can  go  on  well  enough.  But  if  you  leave 
me,  I  have  nothing  left  to  care  for ;  if  I  cannot 
have  love,  I  must  have  excitement.  I  go  in 
despair  and  make  a  fool  of  myself" 

"  You  know  I  would  come  if  I  could." 

"  How  do  I  know  ?  You  do  not  come.  Have 
you  ever  told  your  father  ?  " 

"  Never.  And  that  often  troubles  me,  be- 
cause  " 

"  It  would  be  of  no  use.  He  would  never 
consent." 

"  But    I    ought   to   tell    him.       And    he    is    so 


good " 

''  That  is  just  it.  I  am  no  Puritan,  and  he 
would  think  of  me  with  horror.  And  what  would 
you  do  if  he  knew  and  forbade  you  to  see  me  ? 
Would  you  obey  ?  Or  would  you  come  to 
me  ?  That  would  be  the  only  way.  How  easy  it 
would  be.  I  could  fetch  you  any  night,  and  you 
could  come  down  like  this.  We  could  go  abroad. 
Come,  Marion  !     Say  you  will  come." 


Mr.   Percival's  Proposal  189 

The  white,  cold  mist  of  the  fen  was  drawing 
near.  She  shivered,  and  hastily  rose  to  go.  The 
suggestion,  so  abrupt  and  unexpected,  horrified 
her  ;  but  he  held  her  hand. 

"  Wait  one  moment,  Marion.  How  can  I  help 
wishing  it  when  I  love  you  so  much  ?  When  will 
you  come  again  ?  Not  to-morrow,  but  the  night 
after,  I  could  come  much  earlier.  You  see  it  is 
quite  safe.  I  would  walk  down  over  the  hill,  and 
nobody  can  disturb  us.  I  will  come  again  to  the 
window,  and  then  you  must  be  ready  to  come 
down." 

She  did  not  answer.  Although  she  had  so 
easily  done  this,  she  could  not  calmly  contemplate 
it  and  promise. 

"  You  must.  You  will,  I  know  you  will."  Again 
he  pressed  her  in  his  arms,  and  her  hesitation 
melted  in  the  warmth  of  his  embrace, 

"  I  must  go,"  she  faltered.  "How  chilly  it  has 
become,  and  your  coat  is  quite  moist." 

"  Good-bye  I  I  think  of  going  to  Bridgetown 
to  live.  I  cannot  stand  these  Cullifords.  But  I 
will  tell  you  then." 

Thus  they  parted  ;  and  she  crept  safely  back  to 
her  room.  No  one  in  the  house  had  stirred,  and 
yet  her  soul  was  haunted  by  a  sense  of  insecurity. 
Was  it  the  night,  or  the  danger,  which  made  the 
stolen    interview    so    different    to    their    noonday 


iQo  "Love  and  Quiet  Life" 

rambles  in  the  copse  and  on  the  down  ?  The  joy 
of  romance  had  made  way  for  the  restless  aching 
of  reality.  And  somewhere  in  the  depth  of  her 
heart  was  an  undefined  misgiving  of  his  love. 
She  sat  down  upon  the  bed,  so  dainty  white  in  the 
uncertain  light.  She  did  not  want  to  see  him  go 
away. 

Suddenly  the  sound  of  voices,  raised  in  alterca- 
tion, fell  upon  her  ear.  She  hurried  to  the 
window.  The  horse  was  still  tied  to  the  gate,  but 
between  it  and  her  lover  stood  a  dark  figure.  The 
man  appeared  to  be  begging,  and  being  refused 
poured  forth  a  torrent  of  angry  speech.  She 
could  not  catch  the  words.  Then  Mr.  Henslej- 
struck  him,  and  he  fell. 

She  saw  her  lover  quietly  mount  his  horse  and 
ride  away. 

The  whole  scene  was  enacted  more  rapidly  than 
it  can  be  written.  A  minute  later  the  figure  rose, 
and  as  it  shuffled  by  towards  the  village,  she 
recognised  the  fustian  coat  of  John  Sandboy. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

A    PRETTY     UPSTORE 

How  sweet  it  was  that  summer  when  the  air  was 
fragrant  with  the  scent  of  hay,  and  through  the 
open  window  Marion  could  hear  the  distant  voices 
of  men  and  women  folks,  as  they  sat  at  noon  in  the 
shade  of  the  hedgerow  and  elm  trees  for  a  bite  and 
a  drop,  and  a  rest  out  of  the  sun  !  There  the 
village  scandals  were  raked  up  and  turned  over  like 
the  hay.  But  there  was  no  sound  of  malice  or  ill- 
will  ;  only  talk  and  laughter  as  if  life  had  no 
sorrow  too  deep  for  mirth  to  heal.  And  at  dusk 
the  wagons  laden  with  singing  workers  rattled 
home  through  the  village. 

Suddenly  one  evening,  just  at  dark,  there  was  a 
great  stir  in  Sutton,  and  all  the  villagers  were  called 
out  of  doors  by  the  sound  of  a  woman's  screams. 
Abraham  ran.  So  did  Josiah,  and  Mrs.  Carew 
popped  out  into  the  street.  The  point  of  interest 
was  the  Sandboy  cottage.  John  Sandboy  had 
leturned  late  from  a  warm  day's  work  necessitating 
frequent  libations,  and  was  standing  in  the  door- 
way, his  arms  bare,  his  yellow  trousers  bound  with 


192  "Love  and  Quiet  Life" 

leathern  straps  below  the  knee.  Grammer  was 
moaning  amongst  the  hives,  whilst  Mrs.  Sandboy 
stood  with  her  back  against  the  hatch.  It  was  she 
who  screamed  loudest,  for  Tamsin,  the  object  of 
her  father's  wrath,  was  standing  in  the  road  crying 
as  if  her  heart  would  break. 

"  Then  I  wun't  bide  at  home  to  be  beat  about. 
I  wun't  come  where  I  be'n't  a-wanted,"  retorted 
the  girl  defiantly  between  her  tears. 

The  disturbance  had  attracted  Mr.  Burt,  and 
Marion  followed  him,  but  waited  at  some  little 
distance. 

"  What  is  it?  What  is  the  matter  ?"  he  repeated 
in  his  nervous  way,  hesitating  on  the  borders  of  the 
little  crowd  in  anxiety  to  ascertain  the  truth,  so 
that  he  might  expostulate  with  force  or  condemn 
with  justice. 

"  'Tes  Mrs.  Culliford  have  a-bundled  off  Tamsin 
pack  an'  fardel,"  explained  Josiah. 

"  An'  John  Zandboy  comed  home  a  bit  fresh- like 
an'  gi'ed  the  maid  a  leatheren  wi'  the  wold  man's 
stick/'  added  Abraham. 

"  Did  he  indeed  strike  her  in  that  manner?  "  said 
Mr.  Burt,  making  his  way  forward. 

"  I  wun't  have  the  maid  a-beat,"  cried  Mrs.  Sand- 
boy, taking  shrill  courage  at  this  sympathy.  "If 
the  maid  have  a-lost  her  place,  what  odds  is  it  to 
he  ? — why  he  never  coo'dn'  keep  a  place  more  'an 


A  Pretty  Upstore  193 

vive  minutes.  If  we  hadn'  a-got  the  house  over  our 
heads,  we  should  a-bin'  out  o'  parish  years  agone. 
Tidden  vor  what  he  do  sar ;  or  if  he  do,  he  don't 
bring  it  home " 

Incensed  by  these  taunts  John  Sandboy  advanced 
towards  the  hatch. 

His  wife,  who  only  domineered  when  John  was 
sober,  ran  screaming  into  the  road,  and  Mr.  Burt 
availed  himself  of  that  moment  to  intervene. 

"  Now,  Sandboy,  my  good  fellow !  this  is  too 
bad.  Your  violence  (for  such  an  action  cannot  be 
regarded  as  reasonable  correction,  justified  by  ill- 
conduct  on  the  part  of  your  daughter)  has  disturbed 
the  whole  parish.  How  much  better,  more  decent 
and  effectual  in  every  way  to  have  spoken  to  her 
kindly  but  with  firmness " 

John,  excited  with  drink  and  the  presence  of  the 
little  group  of  neighbours,  resentful  of  interference, 
angrily  interrupted  : — 

"  What  odds  is  it  to  you  or  any  other  man  I 
should  like  to  know.  I  ben't  beholden  to  you,  not 
as  I  do  know.  You  look  a'ter  your  own  maid. 
That  '11  take  ee  all  your  time  by  ail  accounts " 

"  John  !  John  !  whatever  be  a-tellen  o'  ?  "  shrieked 
Mrs.  Sandboy,  "  Whatever  be  a-zayen  o'  to 
gen'levolk." 

"  I  don't  care  nothen  at  all  about  gen'levolk.  I 
never  didn'  get  no  good  out  o'  gen'levolk.     Gen'le- 

13 


194  "Love  and  Quiet  Life" 

volk  or  poor  volk,  'tes  all  as  one.  Let  un  look  a'ter 
his  own  maid  I  tell  'ee 

"  Why  she  do  come  down  in  the  night  to  sweet- 
hearty  an'  sit  in  porch  wi'  un.  I  zeed  'em  wi'  my 
own  eyes,  as  they  stood  in  the  moonlight  out  'pon 
path  avore  they  parted.  She  an'  Mr.  Hensley.  I 
spoke  to  the  man  as  he  went  away.  Perty  goings- 
ons  at  midnight,  wi'  his  ho'se  a-tied  up  to  the  Ham- 
mead  gate.  Let  every  man  look  a'ter  his  own  I 
zay  ;  lef  alone  other  volk.    That's  what  I  do  zay." 

Having  shot  his  bolt,  and  somewhat  sobered 
himself  in  the  process,  he  turned  and  went  into  the 
cottage,  slamming  the  door  behind  him.  From  the 
distance  Marion  heard  every  word  ;  then,  unob- 
served she  fled  to  the  privacy  of  her  own  room. 
How  terrible  it  had  sounded  thus  coarsely  shouted 
to  the  wind  !  She  thought  she  could  never  face  the 
world  again.  And  how  would  she  be  able  to  meet 
her  father  ?  She  threw  herself  upon  the  bed  and 
hid  her  face  in  the  pillow. 

There  was  silence  in  the  little  group,  for  nobody 
knew  what  to  say,  and  presently  Mrs.  Sandboy 
quietly  crept  indoors  ;  Tamsin  waited  awhile  by 
the  lilac-bush.  But  all  was  quiet  within  the  cot- 
tage, and  finding  no  further  excitement  the 
villagers  dispersed.  Thus  in  spite  of  the  sweet 
summer  there  were  aching  hearts  in  Sutton  that 
night. 


A  Pretty  Ufstore  195 

How  should  Marion  meet  her  father?  Would 
he  reproach,  or  regard  her  with  that  grave  kindness 
which  had  so  often  quelled  her  spirit  as  a  child  ? 
The  act,  so  natural  to  her  romantic  love,  now  pre- 
sented itself  before  her  in  all  its  compromising  im- 
modesty. She  saw  it  with  the  eyes  of  other  people. 
She  heard  their  coarse  comments,  their  laughter 
and  their  scorn.  She  felt  the  full  effect  of  that  un- 
reflecting folly,  falling  with  the  suddenness  of  an 
unexpected  blow  upon  her  father's  gentle  affection. 

The  door  closed  behind  him  and  she  attentively 
listened.  He  waited  a  few  moments  by  the  stairs, 
as  if  in  doubt,  and  then  went  into  the  library.  Per- 
haps he  would  presently  call  her.  A  long  while 
she  waited,  intent  to  catch  the  slighest  sound,  until 
the  silence  of  the  house  became  quite  oppressive 
and  filled  her  heart  with  a  vague  misgiving.  She 
wanted  to  go  down  to  him — to  throw  her  arms 
around  his  neck — to  tell  him  all  her  thoughts,  her 
hopes,  her  love.  Out  of  his  own  experience,  so 
clearly  told  in  her  mother's  letters,  he  would  un- 
derstand and  pity  her.  And  yet  she  could  not  do 
this.  No  such  display  of  emotion  had  ever  taken 
place  between  them  ;  and  from  early  childhood  the 
unbroken  current  of  their  love,  as  if  too  deep  for 
demonstration,  had  flowed  smoothly  on. 

Then,  as  the  time  passed,  and  still  he  did  not 
move,   the   undefined    doubt    which   troubled   her 


196  "Love  and  Quiet  Life" 

began  to  assume  form.  The  recent  conversation  in 
the  bower  had  made  a  profound  impression  upon 
her.  The  recollection  of  his  illness  on  the  hill 
arose  vividly  before  her  imagination.  That  had 
followed  a  season  of  great  excitement.  Suddenly 
she  pictured  him  ill,  alone,  and  in  need  of  help. 
Trembling  with  fear,  without  a  moment's  hesitation 
she  hastened  downstairs,  and  went  into  the  library. 

Upon  his  writing-table  stood  two  tall  silver 
candlesticks,  and  as  usual  he  had  lighted  the 
candles  as  if  to  read.  One  was  consumed  to  the 
socket  ;  the  other,  untended,  was  running  to  waste, 
and  the  tallow  overflowed  upon  his  papers.  He 
had  not  drawn  his  chair  up  to  the  table,  but  was 
sitting  remote,  an  elbow  resting  on  his  knee,  his 
grey  head  upon  his  hand.  As  she  entered  he 
raised  his  head  and  looked  at  her  intently  ;  but  the 
eager  hope  of  his  first  glance  was  quickly  clouded 
by  anxiety. 

"  I  came  down  to  speak  to  you,  Father." 

Without  rising  he  extended  a  hand  and  drew 
forward  a  chair. 

She  sat  beside  him  and  waited,  but  he  did  not 
speak. 

"  I  have  wanted  to  tell  you  for  a  long  time,"  she 
faltered,  "  but  I— I  could  not." 

Again  his  eyes  met  hers  in  sad  reproach. 

'•  It  is  not  all  true  that  was  said,"  she  continued 


A  Pretty  Upstore  197 

eagerly.  "  I  have  seen  him  very  little  of  late. 
Once — one  night,  I  went  into  the  garden  to  speak 
to  him,  when  he — when  he  was  returning  from 
Bridgetown.  I  could  not  help  it.  I  wanted  to 
speak  to  him  so  much.    We — I  love  him  so  much." 

He  moved  uneasily  and  moaned.  "  I  have  been 
blind — blind — blind,"  he  said  as  if  to  himself 
"  For  a  moment  I  foresaw  this  ;  and  then  I  thought 
it  impossible.  I  have  undertaken  a  task  beyond 
my  power — beyond  my  strength." 

Overcome  by  his  distress  he  hid  his  face  in  his 
hands  and  wept.  She  could  have  borne  his  rebuke, 
or  at  least  have  combated  it  ;  but  his  self-reproach 
possessed  a  quality  of  tenderness  which  melted 
opposition.  Carried  away  by  feelings  of  love  and 
gratitude,  she  threw  herself  upon  the  floor  at  his 
feet  and  clasped  his  knees. 

"  My  poor  child  !  "  he  said,  "  I  could  with  greater 
resignation  follow  you  to  the  grave  than  see  you 
united  to  such  a  man." 

"  You  scarcely  know  him.  Father." 

As  he  thought  of  Hensley,  the  uncompromising 
hatred  of  unrighteousness  which  underlay  the 
old  man's  gentleness  burst  forth  in  incoherent 
indignation. 

"  He  is  a  dissolute  prodigal,  a  heartless  libertine 
— one  upon  whom  the  bonds  of  affection  have 
never " 


198  "Love  and  Quiet  Life" 

To  the  girl  this  sounded  like  injustice.  She 
could  not  repress  the  reply  prompted  by  the  loyalty 
of  her  love. 

"  You  are  deceived,  Father,"  she  said  quickly. 
"You  misapprehend  him  entirely.  How  can  you 
know  since  you  have  never  talked  to  him  ?  He 
has  been  foolish  and  prodigal,  but  he  recognises 
this.  From  his  follies  he  has  gained  experience. 
He  desires  to  lead  a  better  life.  That  was  why  he 
came  to  Sutton — to  equip  himself  for  a  more  useful 
career,  and  yet  you  condemn  him  unheard.  You 
make  these  accusations  without  knowing  the  state 
of  his  mind." 

Gently  but  with  firmness  he  placed  his  hand  up- 
on her  arm  to  raise  her  from  the  floor.  She  was 
bordering  upon  revolt,  and  to  her  the  action  was 
an  expression  of  disapproval.  He  rejected  then 
the  outburst  of  affection,  which  had  brought  her  to 
his  feet.  She  rose,  crossed  the  room,  and  stood 
leaning  against  the  mantelpiece,  with  her  back  to- 
wards him. 

"  If  I  do  not  know  him — I  know  of  him,  alas! 
too  much,"  he  said,  in  a  voice  deep  with  sorrow. 

"  You  can  only  know  what  you  have  heard.  You 
cannot  judge  of  what  he  is  really  like.  Has  Mr. 
Percival  been  speaking  of  him  behind  his  back  ? 
that  you  believe  so  much  to  his  detriment  so 
readily.     How   dare   he   do   so  ?     Of    a   man   he 


A  Pretty  Upstore  199 

scarcely  knows.  If  he  believes  it  true,  he  should 
seek  to  reform  him.  He  should  offer  him  advice 
and  assistance.  Is  this  the  charity  of  which  we 
have  heard  so  often  ?  " 

In  her  excitement  she  had  turned,  and  the  last 
sentence  uttered  with  startling  vehemence  sounded 
like  a  taunt  directed  against  her  father.  A  moment 
later  how  gladly  she  would  have  recalled  it.  And 
yet  the  sense  of  their  injustice,  for  her  thoughts 
were  bitter  against  Mr.  Percival,  still  rankled  in 
her  heart. 

But  her  father  had  regained  his  customary  self- 
control.  He  seemed  incapable  of  being  angry 
with  her  ;  and  only  when  speaking  of  Hensley  had 
his  indignation  overcome  him. 

"  We  will  not  talk  more  of  this  to-night,"  he  said 
quietly.  "  It  is  already  late.  You  shall  only  pro- 
mise me  one  thing,  Marion.  It  is  a  small  request 
where  your  future  happiness  is  concerned.  Tell 
me  that  you  will  not  again  meet  Mr.  Hensley  until 
we  have  calmly  discussed  this  matter.  I  shall  have 
much  to  tell  you.  But  this  is  all  so  sudden,  that  I 
cannot  speak  of  it  to-night.  I  will  choose  my  own 
time.     But  I  will  tell  you.     Yes,  I  will  tell  you." 

There  was  a  strange  sympathy  in  his  tone,  a 
pity  springing  from  experience,  and  she  felt  that 
he  understood  her  sorrow. 

"  Will  you  promise  ?  " 


200  "  Love  and  Quiet  Life  " 

"Yes,  Father.  I  promise.' 
"  It  shall  not  be  long.  Come.  It  is  very  late," 
Bidding  her  good-night,  he  kissed  her  with  his 
usual  kindness  and  serenity.  There  was  nothing 
to  forgive,  no  quarrel  to  make  up.  In  her  promise 
he  placed  implicit  trust,  and  her  heart  drew  com- 
fort from  this  confidence.  But  she  knew  that  he 
had  determined  to  tell  her  his  own  story — that 
story  of  love,  and  opposition,  and  constancy  of 
which  she  had  caught  glimpses  in  the  letters. 


CHAPTER   XVII 

"A    SONG    O'   SIXPENCE" 

One  day  in  that  same  week  Mrs.  Carevv,  hearing 
the  sound  of  wheels,  ran  to  the  little  side  window 
in  time  to  catch  sight  of  Mr.  Poltimore's  carriage 
passing  up  the  street.  On  all  such  occasions  the 
important  questions  were,  "  Where  would  it  stop  ?  " 
"Would  Mr.  Poltimore  get  out?"  "How  long 
would  he  stay  ?  " 

Mrs.  Carew  ftad  been  known  to  watch  for  hours 
when  Mr.  Poltimore  remained  long  with  Josiah,  or 
lingered  under  Abraham's  roof.  But  to-day  he 
passed  both  farms.  "Ah !  He  must  have  been  up 
to  the  Manor  House,"  she  told  herself.  And  then, 
although  the  good  woman  could  scarcely  believe 
her  eyes,  the  carriage  drew  in  before  the  Sandboy 
hatch  ;  the  great  man  alighted — and  went  in. 

Mrs,  Carew  could  not  divine  his  errand. 

The  cottage  door  was  open,  and  Mr.  Poltimore 
was  too  important  to  knock.  Grammer,  overawed 
by  the  sudden  appearance  of  this  unlooked-for 
visitor,  rose  from  her  chair  and  curtsied.  Mrs. 
Sandboy,  who  answered  his  questions,  bobbed  an 
obeisance  at  every  word. 

aoi 


202  "  Love  and  Quiet  Life  " 

"Good  morning.    Good  morning.    Husband  in?" 

"  Just  across  in  mead,  Zir." 

"Then  run  and  fetch  him,  my  good  woman. 
Tell  him  Mr,  Poltimore  is  desirous  to  speak  to  him." 

Grammer,  standing  by  the  open  hearth,  shrewdly 
watched  with  suspicion  as  Mr.  Poltimore  glanced 
around  the  house.  The  floor  was  irregularly  pitched 
with  pebbles.  The  chimney,  being  of  insufficient 
height,  smoked  in  a  high  wind,  so  that  the  ceiling 
was  as  black  as  a  hat.  In  the  little  square  window 
here  and  there  a  crazy  pane  was  patched  with 
paper.  Certainly  the  Sandboy  abode  was  poor 
and  squalid,  although  the  row  of  plates  upon  the 
dresser  was  shining  clean. 

Presently  John  Sandboy  entered  in  haste,  his 
arms  bare  as  he  had  left  his  work.  Mr.  Poltimore 
wore  top  boots  and  breeches,  and  a  blue  cut-away 
coat  with  brass  buttons. 

When  Mr.  Poltimore  had  business  he  loved  to 
treat  the  matter  largely  and  talk  of  his  Lordship. 

"  Good  morning,  Sandboy,"  he  said  with  genial 
condescension. 

"  Marnen,  Zir,"  said  John,  touching  his  forelock 
in  anticipation  of  an  odd  job. 

"  I've  been  a  long  time  coming,  Sandboy.  I  left 
you  alone  as  long  as  I  could,  but  as  I  was  passing 
through  Sutton  I  embraced  the  opportunity.  The 
old  man  is  dead,  they  tell  me." 


"  A  Song  o'  Sixpence"  203 

"  Oh,  ay,  Zir.     Dead  an'  buried,"  replied  John. 

"  Well,  what  are  we  to  say  about  the  cottage  ? 
I  said  to  his  Lordship  that  we  wouldn't  disturb 
the  old  man." 

"The  cottage?"  said  Sandboy,  raising  his  hand 
to  his  forehead  in  perplexity. 

"  Yes.  You  must  think  yourself  a  lucky  fellow, 
Sandboy,  and  no  mistake.  Here  you've  been 
living  free  all  these  years.  But  you  have  to  thank 
me  for  that.  Years  ago  his  Lordship  said  to  me, 
'  Poltimore  !  what's  that  cottage  ?  They  ought  to 
pay  something.'  "  (As  primitive  man  imagined  an 
anthropomorphous  God,  so  in  his  imitation,  the 
agent  represented  his  Lordship  as  a  glorified  Mr. 
Poltimore.)  "  But  I  said,  '  We  can  leave  them 
alone,  my  Lord.'  I  said,  '  The  man  is  very  old,  and 
when  he  drops  off  I  will  make  some  fair  arrange- 
ment.' Now  what  shall  we  say?  Your  grandfather 
put  up  the  house  here  on  his  Lordship's  land,  and 
of  course  his  Lordship  could  have  turned  you  out 
if  he  liked.  But,  eh — oh  well ! — say  sixpence  a 
week  ;  and  you  may  trust  me  to  see  you're  not 
hurt  by  it.     I'll  do  some  repairs." 

At  this  astounding  proposition  the  Sandboy 
household  was  in  consternation.  For  years  it  had 
been  the  accepted  belief  in  Sutton  that  by  lapse  of 
time  the  cottage  had  gained  a  title.  Hundreds 
of  times  this  had  been  the  subject  of  discussion. 


204  "Love  and  Quiet  Life" 

"  Oh  ay,  that's  safe  enough,"  said  Abraham.  "  To 
be  zure,"  replied  Josiah.  And  nobody  had  ever 
felt  the  slightest  doubt  upon  the  matter. 

"  You  ca'n't  claim  it.  You  ca'n't  claim  it,"  piped 
Grammer  in  her  shrill  voice. 

"  Hold  thee  noise,"  cried  John  Sandboy  angrily. 
Although  he  sometimes  succumbed  to  feminine 
opposition,  he  invariably  resented  support. 

"  I  ben't  a-gwain  to  pay  no  zixpence." 

"  Then  his  Lordship  will  turn  you  out.  It  will 
be  my  duty,  acting  for  his  Lordship,  to  serve  you 
with  a  notice  to  quit.  But  take  the  advice  of  one 
who  wishes  you  well.  Get  any  foolish  notion  out 
of  your  head  that  the  land  can't  be  claimed.  Pay 
a  small  rent,  and  I'll  do  the  place  up.  There,  I 
was  never  an  arbitrary  man.  Take  a  few  days  to 
think.  Why,  man  alive,  you'd  be  better  off  under 
his  Lordship.  I  shall  be  here  again  in  a  fortnight, 
and  then  I'll  see  you  again." 

Thus  Mr.  Poltimore  hastily  withdrew  ;  but  as 
his  carriage  rolled  out  of  Sutton,  Grammer  crept 
down  to  the  garden  path,  and  muttered  between 
her  teeth.  Abraham  saw  her,  and  harboured 
uncanny  thoughts. 

The  Sandboy  family  was  not  popular  in  the 
village.  The  loafing  habits  of  John  begot  doubts 
as  to  his  honesty ;  and  Grammer's  witch-like  ways 
awakened  fears  even  in  folk  who  disclaimed  belief 


"A  Song  o'  Sixpence"  205 

in  witchcraft.  Years  ago,  when  Abraham  Bartlett 
had  the  difference  with  the  old  John  Sandboy,  not 
Girt-gran-dadder,  but  Crammer's  man,  over  the 
eighteenpence  about  the  shrouding  the  elm  trees, 
Abraham  was  hag-rod  every  night  of  his  life  about 
two  "in  marnen."  A  witch  came  on  a  "dree- 
lagged  milken  stool,  an'  sot  'pon  Abraham's  chest, 
as  Abraham  mid  be  a-lying  on  the  back  o'  un 
like."  Whether  she  turned  Abraham  on  his  back 
like  a  sheep,  or  whether  he  might  be  so  lying  at 
the  time,  was  more  than  he  could  swear.  But  he 
could  take  his  oath  to  the  three-legged  milking 
stool.  For  the  old  hag  wouldn't  sit  still.  She 
bumped  up  and  down  for  all  the  world  as  if  she 
were  riding  a  trot.  She  had  a  "  tait "  upon  that 
stool,  and  when  it  tilted  upon  one  leg  you  would 
have  thought  it  was  a  "teddy  dibble"  running  be- 
tween your  ribs.  But  the  most  wonderfulest  thing 
was,  that  when  Abraham  awoke  all  in  a  sweat 
and  his  chest  so  sore  as  if  he  were  black  and  blue 
— there  was  nothing  ! 

This  treatment  had  made  Abraham  most  terrible 
bad  in  his  inside,  and  brought  on  a  sort  of  hesi- 
tation-like in  his  stomach,  so  that  he  pitched  away 
and  got  so  poor  that  he  were  little  better  than  a 
shadow,  and  sang  the  Amens  in  a  voice  "  so  hoa'se 
as  a  crow."  And  if  that  wasn't  old  Grammer,  'tes  a 
very  funny  thing.     For  no  sooner  did  Abraham  pay 


2o6  "  Love  and  Quiet  Life  " 

the  eighteenpence  than  he  slept  as  sound  as  a  sebem- 
sleeper,  and  began  to  get  the  good  of  his  victuals. 

But  as  casting  suspicion  upon  Grammer,  Josiah's 
experience  was  still  more  convincing.  When  he 
was  up  a  hardish  lad  and  without  thought,  one 
year  of  a  panshard  day,  he  got  behind  hedge 
over-right  the  cottage  to  throw  stones  at  the  door. 
It  was  the  prettiest  bit  o'  fun  ever  Josiah  saw. 
Bang  went  the  stone  against  the  door.  Out 
popped  Grammer  a-looking  up-street  and  down- 
street,  muttering  maledictions  against  "  them 
twoads  o'  bwoys."  This  continued  some  time 
with  unvarying  success,  until  Grammer  with  that 
phenomenal  nimbleness  of  intellect  which  after- 
wards brought  her  into  bad  repute,  popped  out  at 
an  unexpected  moment,  A  brown  panshard  was 
whizzing  across  the  road.  It  just  grazed  her 
forehead — "a  near  touch  it  hadn't  a-cut  ope  the 
head  o'  her" — and  when  she  put  up  her  apron 
there  was  the  "  leastest  drap  o'  blood."  So  Josiah 
was  free  from  her  spells  for  ever.  The  strongest 
witch  that  ever  went  abroad  at  night  as  a  black 
cat,  or  travelled  by  day  in  the  form  of  a  hare,  or 
crept  unbeknown  into  a  neighbour's  house  in  the 
shape  of  a  fat  toad,  was  powerless  against  a  body 
who  had  once  "  a-drawed  blood."  And  in  that 
lay  the  corroborative  value  of  Josiah's  experience. 
Nothing  out  of  the  common  had  ever  happened  to 


"  A  Song  o'  Sixpence  "  207 

Josiah.     He  slept  quiet  o'  nights,  and  only  dreamed 
by  day  when  he  thought  of  his  little  family,  or  his 
large  family,  or  his  long  family,  just  as  it  chanced 
to  be  called.     Thirteen  children  with  never  speck 
nor   blemish  ;    and    still    a    future   before   Josiah. 
When  that  motherly  soul,  his  wife,  at  a  ripe  old  age 
was  carried  to  her  last  resting-place,  it  was  the  pride 
of  the  longest  funeral  that  ever  walked  down  Sut- 
ton, that  she  had  reared  eighteen  and  never  lost  one. 
Yet   if  ever   human  soul    was  a   fair   prey   for 
witchcraft  it  was  that  placid  blue-eyed  man.     He 
had  a  natural  love  for  the  occult,  and  drank  super- 
stition more  readily  than  cider.     He  cured  warts 
by  burying  rusty  bacon    under   the   stable  door, 
turned  pale  if  you  put  the  bellows  on  the  table, 
and  once,  meeting  four  magpies  on  the  road   to 
Bridgetown    market,   he   turned    back.      Whether 
there   was   danger   or   no,  Josiah  could    not   say. 
"There mid  be,  an'  there  midn'."     Josiah  "  could'n 
zee  noo  good  in  a-gwain  on — where  there  wur  a 
doubt  like."     And  certainly  Josiah  did  not  die— 
at  that  time. 

When  Mrs.  Carew  had  watched  the  departure 
of  Mr.  Poltimore's  carriage,  she  put  on  her  things, 
popped  out  to  get  hold  of  the  rights  of  it  and 
walked  across  to  see  Mrs.  Culliford. 

Inconvenienced  by  the  discharge  of  Tamsin, 
that   good    woman    even  forgot   the   formality  of 


2o8  "  Love  and  Quiet  Life  " 

asking  Mrs.  Carew  to  take  her  bonnet  off.  She 
was  bustHng  about  in  the  dairy-house,  and  carried 
on  the  conversation  whilst  she  crumbled  up  the  curd. 

"  No,  thank  'ee  sure,  Mrs.  Culliford.  I  won't  zit 
down.  Mr.  Poltimore  do  claim  the  Zandboys' 
house  for  his  Lordship.  Oh  ees,  he've  a-bin  there 
this  morning,  ten  minutes  by  the  clock.  Looking 
very  well  in  health,  wi'  more  colour  I  thought. 
An'  he  says  they  mus'  pay  or  go,  for  so  his  Lord- 
.ship  have  a-made  up  his  mind." 

"  Then  'tes  to  be  hoped  they'll  go,  and  Zutton 
ring  the  bells  to  see  the  backs  o'  'em.  Measter 
have  a-said  times  out  o'  number,  that  they  ben't 
wo'th  their  salt,  the  whole  kit  o'  'em.  Oh  no, 
Measter  don't  want  'em  to  Zutton." 

"  Well,  an'  they  be  a  real  disgrace,"  agreed  Mrs. 
Carew.  "  Why  the  night  you  send  out  Tamsin  all 
the  street  wur  to  an  upstore.  An'  't  wur  said  that 
Mr.  Burt's  maid  did  come  down  every  night  o'  her 
life  an'  walk  wi'  Mr.  Hensley.  Scand'lous !  I  do 
call  it.  An'  they  to  pretend  to  be  so  good. 
Though  I  never  didn'  call  his  preachen  gospel 
myself  And  'tes  said  they  do  walk  arm  an'  crook 
up  'pon  hill,  a'most  every  day  o'  their  lives." 

"  Tidden  any  good  for  her  to  walk  wi'  he.  He'd 
walk  wi'  a  hundred  an'  still  be  heart-whole,"  cried 
Mrs.  Culliford.  "  But  he'll  never  be  a  mo'sel  bit 
o'  good  in  theas  wordle.     That's  what  Measter  do 


"  A  Song  o'  Sixpence  "  209 

zay.  Live  zo  long  as  he  mid,  he'll  never  be  viray- 
wise.  Not  a  penny  to  bless  htszelf.  An'  go  a- 
card  playen  for  the  wealth  o'  the  Indies.  An' 
eet  you  can't  help  a-liking  the  man — at  times." 

"  An',  what  wur  it  about  Tamsin  ?  " 

"There,  don't  'ee  talk  about  Tamsin.  She'll 
never  come  to  no  good,  a  lazy  giglet.  I  ca'n't 
think  what's  come  over  the  maid.  But  la !  wi' 
thik  Marion  Burt  a  larnen  o'  her  to  read,  she  wur 
raised  right  o'  her  place  like.  Out  to  back  door 
all  hours.  Tamsin  !  An'  you  mid  holla  yourself 
hoa'se.  An'  she  right  down  aneast  the  ricks. 
Tamsin  !  Tamsin  !  But  lawk  !  her  head  that  vul 
o'  somethen  or  nother  that  she  really  'oodn'  a-heard 
the  last  trump.  Ah  !  they  be  a  bad  lot.  An'  'tes 
my  belief  that  most  all  the  mirschie'  that  do  hap 
in  parish  thik  wold  Grammer  do  bide  an'  zit  in  her 
wold  chair  an'  hatch." 

So  between  these  prejudices  and  the  imposing 
personality  of  Mr.  Poltimore,  the  Sandboys  re- 
ceived no  moral  support  in  their  emergency.  They 
talked  and  grumbled  and  declared  that  they  were 
being  robbed  of  their  own  and  never  a  sixpence 
would  they  pay.  But  the  question  was  quickly 
lost  sight  of  in  weightier  matters.  And  as  Mr. 
Poltimore  soon  afterwards  proceeded  to  carry  out 
some  repairs,  it  was  understood  in  Sutton  that  the 
sixpence  had  been  paid. 

14 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

PIXY-LED 

Summer  slowly  passed,  but  Mr.  Burt  made  no 
reference  to  the  promised  disclosures.  In  accor- 
dance with  his  intentions  Mr.  Hensley  left  Sutton 
and  went  to  live  at  Bridgetown.  He  had  made 
an  arrangement  with  Mr.  John  Culliford  to  ride 
over  to  the  farm  daily  to  pursue  his  studies,  but  he 
never  came.  The  winter  wheat  in  the  field  on  the 
hill-side  was  cut  ;  and  on  one  of  their  customary 
walks  Marion  and  her  father  stood  by  the  gate, 
and  watched  Abraham  walk  round  and  put  a 
bough  on  every  tenth  stitch  to  claim  it  for  the 
tithe.  Wagons  piled  up  with  golden  sheaves 
creaked  slowly  through  the  village  on  their  way  to 
the  mow-barton.  And  then  for  days  the  w^omen- 
folk  were  leazing  in  the  stubble,  old  Grammer  bent 
two-double,  and  Tamsin,  who  had  not  yet  found 
another  place.  But  the  girl  was  greatly  changed. 
As  she  went  home  one  evening,  carrying  a  sheaf 
upon  her  head,  from  the  garden  Marion  wished 
her  a  good-night.  But  Tamsin  scarcely  answered 
her.     Early  in  September,  a  few  days  after  Mr. 

210 


Pixy- Led  211 

Poltimore  came  to  shoot,  it  was  said  that  she  had 
gone  to  Bridgetown. 

Mr.  Hensley  came  to  shoot  with  Mr.  Poltimore. 
From  her  window  Marion  watched  them  on  the 
hill,  and  afterwards  they  went  down  upon  the 
moor.  Mindful  of  her  promise  she  kept  within 
doors,  and  so  she  did  not  speak  to  him.  But  his 
presence  there  awakened  her  love  and  longing,  and 
when  at  dusk  he  drove  away  in  Mr.  Poltimore's 
carriage,  she  felt  as  if  all  happiness  and  hope  had 
departed.  In  leaving  Sutton  he  had  deserted  her. 
He  could  never  have  loved  her.  It  was  all  false, 
all  he  had  ever  said.  Yet  when  these  reflections 
forced  themselves  upon  her  mind,  far  from  injuring 
her  pride  and  stirring  her  resentment,  they  only 
ministered  to  her  despair.  This  was  a  result  of 
the  isolation  in  which  she  had  lived.  She  felt  there 
could  be  nothing  more  in  life,  if  she  had  lost  his 
love.  Then  she  even  mistrusted  her  father's  silence. 
Could  he  be  trifling,  as  Lycurgus  trifled  with  the 
Spartans,  when  he  beguiled  them  into  a  promise 
from  which  they  were  never  to  be  free  ?  Or  did 
he  know,  now  Hensley  was  gone,  that  there  was 
no  further  danger? 

The  little  buzz  of  scandal  which  had  followed 
John  Sandboy's  revelation  quickly  subsided  and 
was  forgotten  in  subjects  of  deeper  public  interest. 
Even  Mrs.  Culliford  and  Mrs.  Carew  found   some- 


2  12  "Love  and  Quiet  Life" 

thing  more  important  to  talk  about.  For  week  by 
week  Tranter  Coombs  brought  wonderful  tales  of 
the  fearful  state  of  the  country.  Organized  gangs 
of  armed  men,  he  said,  were  going  about  destroying 
and  burning  everything  they  came  "  aneast." 
There  was  to  be  civil  war,  and  the  Duke  of 
Wellington  had  ordered  the  British  army  to  be 
in  readiness.  The  lower  orders,  so  the  tranter 
affirmed,  were  going  to  rise  and  march  from  town 
to  town,  "  a-zetten  vire "  to  the  stacks  of  every- 
body who  used  machinery  or  had  voted  against 
Reform. 

"  'Tes  to  be  hoped  they  won't  come  to  Manor 
Farm  to  Zutton,"  said  Mrs.  Culliford. 

But  Sutton  began  to  feel  apprehensive.  And 
one  day  in  October,  when  the  tops  of  elm  trees 
were  turning  yellow,  and  dead  leaves  began  to 
fall  fluttering  on  the  wind,  Mr.  John  Culliford, 
Abraham  and  Josiah,  happening  to  meet  on  the 
causeway,  decided  that  something  ought  to  be 
done.  But  what?  Josiah,  never  fertile  in  sug- 
gestions, didn'  see  that  anything  could  be  done. 
"  Do  'ee  walk  in  and  drink  a  cup  o'  cider,"  said 
Abraham.     They  unanimously  accepted. 

Abraham's  house  was  quiet.  Free  from  the  dis- 
traction of  wife  or  child,  it  was  a  fitting  birthplace 
for  a  great  idea,  and  the  three  worthies  sat  round 
the  open  hearth,  laboriously  thinking. 


Pixy- Led  213 

"  I'd  fall  in  wi'  anything  myself,  so  right  as 
ninepence,"  volunteered  Josiah  ;  "if  I  didn'  ha'  to 
think  o'  it  vust." 

"  I  do  carr'  the  wold  duck-gun  up  to  bed  every 
night  o'  my  life,"  said  Abraham,  "  an'  have  theas 
years.  If  I  were  ever  to  hear  the  leastest  soun', 
I'm  blamed  if  I  'ouldn'  vire  un  off  out  o'  winder. 
He'd  gaily  'em,  if  there  wur  anybody  about,  I'll 
warr'nt  un — if  he  didn'  bu'st." 

"Ay!  that's  all  very  well,"  argued  Mr.  John 
Culliford,  "  but  we  mid  all  be  a-burned  to  a  cinder 
avore  you  do  wake.  No,  what  we  do  want  is  to 
walk  roun'  of  a  night,  an'  bide  about  in  a  odd 
corner  here  an'  there  to  hear  that  everything  is 
quiet.  'Tes  in  the  small  hours  o'  the  marnen  that 
mirschie'  do  come  about.  An'  eet  in  the  still  o' 
night,  you  can  hear  if  'tes  only  a  mouse  a-moven." 

"  So  you  can,"  said  Josiah.  "  Ay,  manies  o' 
times  I've  a-heard  Bridgetown  clock  strike  when 
I  wur  up  o'  top  o'  hill  wi'  the  ewes." 

"  You  see  't  'ud  only  be  twice  a  week  to  take  a 
night  apiece,"  reflected  Abraham. 

"  I'd  sooner  goo  twice  so  often,  an'  goo  two  to- 
gether," suggested  Josiah. 

"  No,  no,  Josiah.  Ther's  no  need  o'  that.  Why, 
you've  a-bin  out  by  night  hundreds  o'  times.  'Tes 
only  to  walk  drough  parish  an'  over  hill,  an'  stan' 
about  a  bit  an'  listen,"  said  Mr.  John  Culliford. 


214  "Love  and  Quiet  Life" 

"  But  what  be  'ee  to  do,  if  you  do  zee  anything  ?" 

"Well,  be  zure,  you  ca'n't  do  much,  Josiah * 

"  You  must  gie  th'  alarm,"  put  in  Abraham. 

"What,  hollar?" 

"  Ay.  Hollar  vor  the  life  o'  'ee, — Come  on,  Mr. 
Bartlett ;  come  on,  Mr.  Culliford  !  Here  they  be. 
Come  on,  John  ;  come  on,  Bill !  " 

"A  terr'ble  good  plan  that.  They'd  think  the 
parish  was  'pon  their  tails,"  agreed  Josiah.  "  That 
'ud  make  'em  run,  I'll  warr'nt  'em." 

So  it  was  arranged  that  watch  should  be  kept 
in  this  manner,  and  thus  the  invasion  of  Sutton 
was  provided  against.  The  remarkable  experiences 
of  these  worthies  on  their  midnight  tramps  are  re- 
lated to  this  day. 

Abraham  was  the  first  to  whom  anything  ex- 
ceptional occurred.  It  was  a  windy  night,  with 
fine  driving  rain ;  and  to  prevent  himself  being 
overtaken  by  sleep  Abraham  kept  up  a  good  fire 
and  sat  in  the  chimney  corner  with  his  cider  cup. 
At  intervals  he  journeyed  to  the  door,  slightly 
opened  it  and  peered  out  into  the  darkness.  It 
was  a  night  not  fit  for  a  dog  to  be  about  in.  The 
cold  gust  sent  Abraham  shivering  back  to  his 
fireside,  and  on  each  occasion,  with  forethought 
worthy  of  a  parish  clerk,  he  put  the  "  leastest  drap 
o'  gin "  in  his  cider,  to  fortify  his  constitution 
against  the  cold  and  wet.     At  a  little  before  mid- 


Pixy-Led  215 

night  he  put  on  his  long  drab  coat  and  staggered 

into  the    street.     But   lawk !    the  wind    was   that 

strong,  "  more  than  anybeddy  'ud  ever  a-thought," 

that  it  was  as  much  as  Abraham  could  do  to  keep 

his  feet.     The  night  was  so  black  as  a  bag.     "  You 

couldn't  zee  your  han'  avore  your  face" — not  at 

first.     So  Abraham  kept  to  the  middle  of  the  road, 

"so  fur  as  he  wur  able,"  until  he  got  down  by  the 

church,  and  then  he  went  through  the  drang-way 

into  the  lane.     By  this  time  his  eyes  were  getting 

used    to   the   light ;  and  he  made  good  progress 

until  he  came  over-right  the  pit  and  the  bottom  of 

the  wood.     There  by  the  ash  trees  the  fairies  got 

hold  of  Abraham.     Never  was  man  more  pixy-led. 

They  turned   him   round   and  round,   for   all   the 

world  like  spinning  a  top,  until   his  head  "wur  all 

to  a  mizmaze  like,"  and  then  they  pushed  him  into 

ditch  right  down  along-straight  and  made  him   so 

wet  as  a  muck.     When  he  tried  to  get  up  they 

drasreed  "  brimnibes  athirt    the  face  o'  un,"  until 

Abraham,  according  to  his  own  confession,  "  did 

blood  like  a  pig."     They  hooked  his   drab   coat, 

a'most  a  new  coat  that  Abraham  "  'ud   swear  he 

hadn'  a-had  more  'an  ten  year,"  up  in  hedge,  so 

that  "  the  tail  o'  on  wur  a  strent  right  down  drough 

in  dree  places."     Yet  in  spite  of  all  this  ill-usage 

Abraham    never   once  lost  his  presence  of  mind. 

He  knew  if  he  could  only  change  his  stockings  he 


2i6  "Love  and  Quiet  Life" 

could  beat  the  beggaring  things.  But  he  could 
never  find  his  legs.  When  he  put  down  his  hand 
to  come  at  his  boots  the  pixies  sort  o'  pushed  it 
away  into  the  mud.  There  must  have  been  thou- 
sands of  them,  all  so  full  of  mischief  as  an  egg  is 
full  of  meat.  But  the  prank  which  inflicted  the 
greatest  humiliation  upon  Abraham  was  the  not 
being  permitted  to  get  at  his  own  boot-lace. 

At  last  there  came  a  lull,  Abraham  arose  and 
stood  unmolested  in  the  lane.  He  could  hear 
them  laughing  and  talking  up  in  the  boughs,  and 
their  conversation  made  a  sort  of  humming,  like  a 
swarm  of  bees,  but  very  different  to  the  wind. 
Never  could  he  call  to  mind  a  time  when  he  had 
felt  so  angry  in  himself,  but  he  deemed  it  prudent 
to  get  along  quietly  and  steal  away,  if  possible 
whilst  they  were  engaged.  So  he  crept  modestly 
through  the  hollow  and  out  upon  the  hill.  There 
he  stood  awhile  in  the  lew  of  the  wall  at  the  top  of 
the  arable  ground. 

Presently  he  became  aware  of  a  tall  figure 
standing  on  the  roadside  a  few  yards  away.  It 
was  quite  alone,  some  traveller  probably,  also  seek- 
ing the  shelter  of  the  wall.  It  is  the  civil  custom  of 
those  parts  never  to  meet  a  stranger  at  night  with- 
out an  exchange  of  salutations. 

"  Good-night,"  said  Abraham. 

But  there  was  no  response. 


Pixy- Led  217 

"  I  zaid  good-night,"  repeated  Abraham. 

But  the  figure  remained  silent  as  the  stone  wall. 

"  What !  too  proud  to  speak,  be  'ee  ?  If  dost'n't 
zay  good-night  I'll  gie  thee  a  clout  under  ear." 

The  figure  remained  irresponsive,  but  un- 
daunted. 

Now  Abraham  had  been  a  smartish  man  in  his 
time,  and  a  tidy  wrestler  to  boot.  He  was  still  a 
dangerous  fellow,  when  his  blood  was  up,  and  the 
pixies  had  ruffled  his  temper  and  made  him  most 
terrible  short.  So  he  hit  out  a  blow  heavy  enough 
to  fell  an  ox.  It  made  Abraham's  fist  tingle,  sure 
enough.  But  the  stranger  stood  up  like  a  man. 
Then  Abraham  felt  he  was  in  for  a  biggish 
business,  and  he  settled  down  for  a  good  fair  and 
square  fight.  But  he  couldn't  very  often  hit  the 
man.  The  way  that  stranger  dodged  the  blows  in 
that  dim  light  was  truly  marvellous.  And  when 
Abraham  hit,  it  was  of  no  more  consequence  than 
a  fly  on  a  grinding-stone.  Then  the  happy  idea 
entered  his  head  to  try  the  sudden  effect  of  a 
fair  back  fall.  Abraham  rushed  in.  The  man 
vanished. 

But  Abraham  was  embracing  the  milestone  ! 

"  Drat  they  things  o'  pixies  !  " 

Determined  to  have  no  more  of  it,  he  sat  down 
on  a  heap  of  stones,  took  off  his  boots,  unbut- 
toned the  four  little  flat  brass  buttons  of  his  knee 


2i8  "Love  and  Quiet  Life" 

breeches,  and  drew  off  his  grey  worsted  stockings. 
The  fairies  did  all  they  could  to  interfere.  They 
turned  back  the  toes.  They  held  up  the  heels.  But 
Abraham  pulled  and  tugged — at  last  got  his  hose 
on  inside  out — and  triumphed. 

The  remainder  of  the  night  passed  without 
incident.  But  never  had  any  one  been  so  teased 
before,  and,  according  to  his  own  avowal,  when 
Abraham  came  to  look  at  himself  in  the  morning, 
he  was  "  all  to  lippets,  an'  more  like  a  mommet 
'an  a  man." 

Josiah's  adventure  was  less  injurious,  but  more 
blood-curdling. 

Pixies  he  understood.  They  were  the  souls 
of  infants  unbaptized,  cut  off  in  the  rosy  dawn 
ere  the  bright  exuberance  of  budding  life  could 
fade  in  the  broad  daylight  of  experience.  Their 
seeming  malice  was  but  wanton  mirth.  Be- 
sides, had  Abraham  not  put  gin  in  his  cider,  it 
is  doubtful  whether  he  had  heard  anything  but  the 
pattering  raindrops  upon  the  rustling  leaves.  The 
restless  wandering  of  a  sin-steeped  soul  is  another 
matter. 

It  was  a  clear,  frosty  night,  and  every  star  was 
twinkling  when  Josiah  started  upon  his  round.  It 
was  one  of  the  stillest  nights  that  ever  Josiah 
could  call  to  mind,  and  he  walked  across  the  fields 
towards  the  Manor  Farm.      Downright  artfulness, 


Pixy- Led  219 

supported    by    constitutional    diffidence,    induced 
Josiah    to  stand   in  out  of  the  way  like  ;    and  he 
leaned   against  the   great  wych-elm  in  Mr.  John 
Culliford's  house  ground,  well    in  hearing  of  the 
mow-barton.     He  was  wondering  what  two  young 
barreners  would  be  likely  to  fetch  to  Bridgetown 
winter  fair,  and  whether — and  then  he  heard  the 
clattering  of  horses'  hoofs  on  the  high  road  above 
the  hill.      You  could  hear  them  a  couple  of  miles 
away  or  more  that  night.       Doubtless  a  drove  of 
colts  going  to  the  fair.      But  as  the  sound  came 
nearer,  Josiah  could  distinguish  the  regular  tick- 
tack  of  well-broken  horses  trotting  together   like 
clockwork.     Josiah  counted.      Four  in  all,  and  a 
faint  rumble   of   wheels.      "Gentry  or   summat," 
Josiah  supposed,  "  a-gwain  home  from  somewhere 
or  nother."     But  when  it  came  to  the  gap  between 
the  pine  spinney  and  the  clump  of  holm,  he  saw — 
no,   in    relating  this  story  Josiah  was    most   par- 
ticular that  he  saw  nothing,  and  Josiah   was  not 
the  man  to  lie— he  heard  a  coach-and-four  leave 
the  high  road,  and  push  through  the  trees  for  all 
the  world  like  a  whirlwind   up  in  air  so  high  as 
church-tower,  and  yet  you  could  hear  the  hoofs  and 
wheels  so  clear  as  if 't  were  'pon  a  turnpike-road— 
and  right   over  the  wych-elm   there   sounded  the 
crack  of  a  whip,  and  one  o'  the  ho'ses  broke  into  a 
canter,  but  only  for  three  strides  ;  and  when  it  had 


220  "Love  and  Quiet  Life" 

passed  Josiah  breathed  again,  and  watched  the 
sound  like,  right  home  to  the  yew  tree  by  the 
Manor  House  Chapel,  and  there  the  noise  broke 
off  so  short — so  short  as  a  carrot.  And  Sutton 
clock  wur  a-stricking  twelve. 

Josiah  Clarke  was  a  just  man,  with  the  fear  of 
God  in  his  heart,  and  he  knew  well  that  forty  thou- 
sand Lord  Harries,  with  forty  thousand  coaches 
and  four,  would  be  powerless  to  injure  any  mortal 
living  man.  But  his  knees  bent  under  him  as  he 
hurried  home  to  bed. 

Mr.  John  Culliford  walked  abroad  by  night 
armed  with  the  handstick  of  a  drashle,  as  tough  a 
bit  of  ash  as  ever  man  could  wish  to  crack  a  crown 
with.  He  strolled  through  the  village  in  the  dark 
with  the  slow  dignity  which  distinguished  his  public 
movements  by  day.  He  loitered  in  corners  and 
listened.  His  hatred  of  illegality  was  so  deep,  that 
he  burned  with  indignation  against  imaginary  law- 
breakers who  did  not  come,  and  felt  himself  a 
match  for  a  dozen  of  the  rascals.  His  idea  of 
strategy  was  to  stand  at  four  cross  roads  and  await 
the  advance  of  the  enemy. 

He  had  been  his  round  and  reached  the  spot 
where  the  road  passing  by  his  house  enters  the 
highway.  He  laid  his  hand  on  the  kissing-gate, 
when  suddenly  his  attention  was  arrested  by  a 
noise  in  the  field — his  field.      It  was  only  momen- 


Pixy- Led  221 

tary.  The  death  wail  of  an  agonized  animal 
abruptly  cut  short. 

Mr.  Culliford  could  scarcely  contain  himself.  He 
knew  what  it  meant  ;  and  the  presumption  of 
poachers  in  coming  to  the  Manor  Farm,  where  he, 
John  Culliford,  was  born  and  bred,  and  his  father 
before  him,  was  almost  more  than  he  could  bear. 
Skirting  the  road  ran  a  narrow  plantation  of  larch, 
and  with  the  quickness  of  thought,  he  nipped 
through  the  gate,  and  ran  on  tiptoe  alongside  the 
hedge  with  a  nimbleness  most  creditable  to  a  man 
of  his  size  and  importance.  Then  he  stopped.  The 
men,  whoever  they  were,  were  certainly  coming 
towards  him  ;  and  he  stood  back  against  the  plan- 
tation, and  waited. 

They  came  within  a  few  yards,  and  held  a 
whispered  consultation.  He  could  hear  every  word 
they  said. 

"  Let's  put  down  here." 

"  Well,  be  sprack  then.     An'  then  goo  on." 

"Catch  hold,  John  Zandboy— ca'n't  ee?  Ha! 
ha  1  How  John  Culliford  'ud  hollar  if  he  could 
know,  I'll  warrant  un." 

"  He's  a-bed.  An'  the  best  place  vor  un  too," 
said  John  Sandboy. 

That  this  deliberation  of  iniquity  should  be  inter- 
spersed with  derision  of  himself  was  more  than  Mr. 
John  Culliford  could  bear.     He  rushed  out  with 


222  "Love  and  Quiet  Life" 

the  impetuosity  of  a  mad  bull.  "  You  pack  o' 
gallis  rogues,"  he  shouted,  and  he  hit  John  Sandboy 
on  the  head.  Scared  by  this  sudden  onslaught 
the  remainder  of  the  party  took  to  their  heels,  and 
disappeared  in  the  darkness. 

Mr.  John  Culliford  fairly  danced  around  his 
prostrate  victim.  "  Zo  John  Culliford  'ud  hollar — 
'ood  er?  You  wait  an'  zee  what  Mr.  Poltimore  do 
zay.  Zo  John  Culliford  wur  a-bed  an'  asleep — 
wur  'er  ?  You  wait  and  hear  what  Mr.  Poltimore 
do  do.  You'd  put  down  here — 'ood  ee?  Wait 
till  Mr.  Poltimore  do  put  you  down  to  Ilchester 
jail." 

At  morn  the  poachers'  net  and  a  heap  of  rabbit? 
were  found  in  the  field.  And  then  the  shadow  of 
Mr.  Poltimore's  displeasure  hung  over  the  Sandboy 
cottage  like  a  thunder-cloud. 


CHAPTER   XIX 

THE   FIRE   OF  BRISTOL 

It  was  on  the  last  Sunday  in  October  that  Mr. 
Hensley  next  came  to  Sutton.  He  rode  into  the 
village  in  the  afternoon,  just  as  people  were  coming 
out  of  church,  and  overtook  Mr.  Culliford  by  the 
corner.  As  she  walked  up  the  street,  Marion 
glanced  back  and  saw  them  earnestly  talking  to- 
gether. Mr.  Culliford  was  standing  on  the  cause- 
way, very  erect,  very  red,  very  angry.  Mrs.  Culli- 
ford, glorious  in  her  Sunday  black  silk,  was 
wringing  her  hands.  Then  they  called  back  the 
people  who  had  passed,  and  others  stopped  also ; 
so  that  quite  a  crowd  of  eager  listeners  gathered 
around.  Mr.  Percival,  coming  from  the  church 
last  and  alone,  stood  a  moment  by  the  gate,  and 
then  hurried  to  inquire  the  cause  of  this  excite- 
ment. 

"  I  think  there  must  be  something  the  matter, 
Father," 

Mr.  Burt  turned  to  look.  Inquisitiveness  exer- 
cised little  influence  over  his  mind,  and  dislike  of 
Mr.  Hensley  prevented  him  from  making  inquiry. 

223 


224  "Love  and  Quiet  Life" 

"  I  daresay  it  is  not  of  great  consequence,"  he  said. 
And  so  they  walked  quietly  home. 

Late  that  evening  Mr.  Percival  called.  His  visits 
had  lately  been  less  frequent,  and  no  more  had 
been  said  about  the  school.  But  this  was  a  relief, 
for  Marion's  heart  was  full  of  bitterness  against 
him. 

He  came  to  tell  them  the  news,  he  said.  It  had 
been  brought  by  coach  to  Bridgetown,  and  was 
doubtless  correct,  that  yesterday  in  Bristol,  at  the 
opening  of  the  City  Sessions,  the  mob  had  risen 
and  stoned  the  Recorder  on  his  way  to  the  Guild- 
hall. In  the  evening  they  had  attacked  the 
Mansion  House,  broken  the  windows,  burst  in  the 
doors.  Then  they  set  fire  to  the  building,  but 
happily  the  soldiers  arrived  in  time  to  prevent  the 
conflagration.  So  dangerous  was  the  mob,  that 
the  troops  had  remained  all  night  in  the  streets, 
and  the  inhabitants  were  in  the  greatest  consterna- 
tion. 

The  knowledge  that  Mr.  Hensley  must  have 
brought  these  tidings  made  conversation  difficult. 
Mr.  Burt  repressed  those  questions  of  detail  which 
rise  so  readily  to  the  lips  in  moments  of  excite- 
ment ;  and  Mr.  Percival  was  studiously  silent  con- 
cerning the  source  of  his  information.  Ill  at  ease 
and  oppressed,  Marion  rose  and  left  the  room. 

This  glimpse  of  her  lover  had  revived  the  inten- 


The  Fire  of  Bristol  225 

sity  of  her  love.  The  presence  of  Mr.  Hensley 
aroused  her  spirit  of  opposition  and  revolt.  True, 
she  had  promised  ;  but  was  she  to  be  left  like  a 
child  without  one  word  ?  She  must  speak  to  her 
father.  She  must  meet  her  lover,  and  put  an  end 
to  this  suspense.  Perhaps  he  came  to  Sutton  that 
day  on  purpose  to  see  her.  She  listened  for  the 
sound  of  his  return.  If  he  were  at  the  IManor 
Farm,  he  would  not  be  late  on  this  Sunday  night. 
The  thought  flashed  across  her  mind  that  he  might 
wait  to  come  below  her  window  when  every  one 
was  asleep,  and  she  felt  afraid.  But  oh  !  if  he  would 
only  come,  to  prove  that  he  had  not  forgotten  her. 
When  Mr.  Percival  left,  she  rejoined  her  father 
in  the  study.  The  evenings  were  already  cold,  but 
with  his  usual  absence  of  mind,  he  had  neglected 
the  fire,  and  only  a  few  dull  embers  rested  between 
the  bars.  As  she  knelt  to  restore  it,  he  interrupted 
her.  "  It  is  scarcely  worth  while,  Marion.  It  will 
be  getting  late."  He  spoke  nervously,  as  if  the 
movement  and  the  noise  disturbed  his  thoughts, 
and  at  once  she  felt  a  presentiment  that  he  inten- 
ded to  speak  to  her  that  night.  She  watched  the 
wavering  of  his  procrastination,  and  waited.  Fear- 
less in  his  opposition  to  injustice  or  untruth,  he  had 
not  courage  to  speak  of  a  matter  so  closely  touch- 
ing his  own  heart.  She  wanted  to  remind  him  of 
his  promise.     But  pity  held  her  silent.     And  then 

15 


2  26  "Love  and  Quiet  Life" 

from  the  shelf  he  took  an  old  calf-bound  volume, 
and  following  his  practice  of  a  Sunday  night,  began 
to  read  aloud.  It  was  the  Imitatio  Christi  of 
Thomas  a  Kempis,  and  he  read  on  and  on,  for- 
getting all  worldly  matters  in  the  beauty  of  these 
spiritual  admonitions.  Sometimes  a  phrase  seemed 
to  strike  him  with  peculiar  force,  and  he  stopped 
to  repeat  it,  as  if  in  verification  of  its  truth  from 
his  own  experience. 

"  Many  zvords  do  not  satisfy  the  soul ;  but  a  good 
life  comforteth  the  mind,  and  a  pure  conscience  giveth 
great  confidence  in  God." 

"  The  more  a  man  is  at  one  within  himself  and 
of  single  heart,  so  vmcli  more  and  higher  things  doth 
he  nnderstand  without  labour ;  for  he  receiveth  the 
light  of  wisdom  from  above." 

The  girl  listened  intently.  The  impressive 
earnestness  of  his  manner  might  have  made  the 
reading  of  that  night  for  ever  memorable  ;  but  for 
another  reason  she  remembered  it  in  after  years. 
When  he  had  finished  and  shut  the  book,  the  mild 
austerity  of  the  old  monk  had  exalted  his  spirit 
above  the  things  of  earth.  She  could  not  speak  to 
him,  and  so  they  parted  for  the  night. 

But  she  could  not  sleep.  The  wind  rustled 
through  the  laurels,  and  in  her  expectation  she 
took  it  for  a  footstep  on  the  path.  A  long  twig 
of    clematis,   torn    from    the    wall,    kept   tapping 


The  Fire  of  Bristol  227 

against  the  window-pane,  and  at  times  it  sounded 
so  human  that  she  raised  her  head  and  listened. 
Yet  she  felt  sure  lie  must  have  ridden  home  to 
Bridgetown  long  ago.  Her  senses  were  so  alert 
that  the  ticking  of  the  clock  upon  the  staircase  be- 
came quite  painful,  although  she  had  never  before 
noticed  it.  The  clock  gurgled  in  its  throat,  and 
struck  twelve  —  one  —  two.  She  counted  every 
hour  ;  and  sometimes  the  warped  elm  boards,  with 
which  the  house  was  floored,  creaked  without 
reason,  as  if  trodden  upon  by  feet  which  made 
no  sound.  Her  heart  ached.  If  she  could  only 
sleep  and  forget  her  love  and  all  its  troubles  ! 

Suddenly  there  came  a  knock — hurried,  but  long 
and  unmistakable — upon  the  front  door.  The 
thing  was  so  unheard  of,  so  incomprehensible  in 
that  quiet  village,  that  it  filled  her  with  alarm. 
Before  she  could  collect  her  thoughts,  it  was  re- 
peated louder  still ;  and  then  she  heard  a  window 
open,  and  the  murmur  of  distant  voices  in  eager 
conversation. 

She  sprang  up  and  began  to  dress.  Presently 
her  father  came  to  her  door. 

"  Do  not  be  frightened,  Marion,"  he  whispered, 
in  a  voice  broken  with  agitation  ;  "  I  am  going  out. 
Abraham  Bartlett  has  been  to  say  there  is  a  great 
fire.  They  think  that  Bristol  is  burning.  I  will 
not  be  long." 


228  "Love  and  Quiet  Life" 

"  I  shall  be  ready  in  one  moment." 

"  No  ;  do  not  come." 

"  Yes,  I  must  come.  I  could  not  stay  here 
alone." 

In  reality  her  care  for  him  was  greater  than  her 
fear.  In  a  moment  she  was  in  readiness,  and 
throwing  a  cloak  around  her,  she  followed  him 
downstairs.  He  had  struck  a  light,  and  they  left 
a  lamp  burning  in  the  library.  The  night  was  cold 
and  dark,  and  as  they  hastened  down  the  street, 
she  took  his  arm  and  led  him  in  the  uncertain 
gloom.  In  front  they  could  hear  the  villagers, 
Abraham  above  the  rest,  explaining  what  he  had 
seen,  and  how  he  had  been  to  every  house  in  the 
village.  Guided  by  the  voices,  they  took  the  road 
through  the  Manor  fields,  past  Mr.  Culliford's 
house,  to  the  open  plain  on  the  hill-top.  The 
night  was  overcast,  and  only  here  and  there  a 
solitary  star  shone  through  a  gap  in  the  darkness. 
But  to  the  north  the  sky  was  in  a  ruddy  glow, 
extending  far  along  the  horizon  ;  and  masses  of 
cloud  stood  out  in  bold  relief  tinged  with  a  lurid 
red. 

"  The  whole  city  must  be  in  flames,"  cried  Mr. 
Burt,  in  an  agony  of  distress.  The  girl  stood 
transfixed  with  awe.  Where  the  senses  can  seize 
no  detail,  nor  fetter  the  imagination  with  a  fact — 
there  is  the  sublimity  of  terror. 


The  Fire  of  Bristol  229 

They  were  the  last  to  reach  the  hill-top.  Every- 
body was  there,  and  in  the  gloom  no  one  heeded 
their  approach.  Marion,  trembling  with  excite- 
ment, had  scarcely  heard  her  father's  words,  and 
did  not  reply  to  them.  The  villagers  also,  looking 
like  blots  against  the  glowing  sky,  were  awe- 
stricken  and  silent.  Then  from  their  midst  she 
recognised  the  voice  of  Mr.  Hensley. 

"  It  must  be  Bristol.  On  any  clear  night  you 
may  see  the  reflection  of  the  lights  upon  the  sky." 

"  Ay.  Tes  Bristol,  sure  enough,"  agreed  Mr. 
Culliford. 

"  Now  whatever  can  anybeddey  think  o'  sich 
wickedness  ?  Why,  they  must  be  a-burnen  thou- 
sands," reflected  Josiah. 

"  Thoughtless  ignorance  !  There'll  be  a  pretty 
penny  o'  rates  to  pay,"  said  Abraham. 

"  I  pray  God  there  be  no  loss  of  life." 

As  Mr.  Burt  ejaculated  this  fervent  wish  the 
villagers,  instinctively  touched  by  a  deeper 
humanity,  gathered  around  him. 

"  What,  Mr.  Burt  ?  A  sad  sight  this,  Zir !  An' 
how's  Mr.  Burt  ?  "  said  Mr.  John  Culliford,  advanc- 
ing to  shake  hands.  In  the  movement  Marion  was 
momentarily  parted  from  her  father.  It  was  then 
that  Mr.  Hensley  came  forward  to  speak  to  her. 

"Marion,"  he  whispered,  "come  and  talk  to  me. 
Don't   go   away.     I    am  only  here  for  one  night. 


230  "Love  and  Quiet  Life" 

They  say  there  are  snipe  upon  the  moor,  and  I 
wanted  to  get  out  in  the  early  morning.  Meet  me 
to-morrow,  dearest,  before  I  go  back." 

It  startled  her  sensibilities  in  the  midst  of  this 
excitement  to  find  him  thus  unmoved.  "  I  can- 
not," she  said.  And  yet  his  words  made  her  very 
glad. 

"  You  cannot  refuse.  I  am  going  to  leave 
Bridgetown  at  once.  I  want  to  tell  you  about  it. 
I  think  of  going  abroad  again." 

"  Why  are  you  going  to  leave  ?  " 

"I  cannot  stand  this  country.  Nobody  can  ever 
settle  in  England  who  has  been  anywhere  else. 
Come  a  little  further  into  the  field  and  talk  to  me. 
They  are  all  staring  at  the  fire.  Nobody  will 
notice  us  in  the  dark." 

Ever  the  same  irresponsible  love  of  change.  It 
accounted  both  for  his  discontent  and  the  contemp- 
tuous tone  of  his  reference  to  his  neighbours. 

"  No,  no,"  she  replied  quickly. 

He  had  already  taken  her  arm.  "  You  must," 
he  pleaded. 

"  I  have  promised  not  to." 

"  That  is  all  the  fault  of  that  poaching  thief,"  he 
said  angrily.  "  But  you  must  come  and  tell  me  of 
it.  That  is  only  fair.  What  did  your  father  say? 
Was  he  very  angry  ?  " 

"  I  said  I  would  not  see  you  again  — at  present." 


The  Fire  of  Bristol  231 

"You  can  scarcely  be  considered  to  break  that 
promise  on  a  night  like  this,"  he  laughed.  Neither 
his  agitation,  nor  the  trouble  she  had  suffered,  nor 
the  belief  that  Bristol  was  in  flames,  was  sufficient 
to  depress  his  buoyancy. 

But  her  life-long  habit  of  obedience  would 
neither  yield  to  entreaty  nor  satisfy  its  compunc- 
tion with  a  mere  quibble.  She  still  tried  to  with- 
draw from  his  touch. 

"  You  have  changed  since  the  other  night,"  he 
said  reproachfully. 

"  No,  no.     But  father  would  never  consent — and 

I  promised " 

"  All  is  fair  in  love.  Come  further  back.  You 
love  me  ?  " 

"Yes.  I  love  you  ;  I  love  you  !  " 
"Then  what  is  there  to  fear?  Who  has  any 
right  to  interfere  with  you  ?  I  must  go  away.  I 
intend  to  go  in  a  fortnight.  I  will  take  two  berths, 
and  fetch  you  as  I  said.  Then  we  will  never  part. 
That  is  the  only  way.  Say  you  will  do  that, 
Marion.  The  time  is  very  short,  and  I  should 
never  see  you  again." 

The  girl  was  weeping  bitterly.  She  dare  not 
promise,  and  her  heart  could  not  refuse. 

"  Come  to-morrow  by  the  copse,  when  you  can. 
I  will  wait  there  all  the  morning.  It  may  be  the 
last  opportunity." 


232  "Love  and  Quiet  Life" 

She  felt  her  resolution  fail.  And  yet,  if  she 
yielded  this  how  could  she  then  withstand 
entreaty? 

"  Marion  ! "  called  her  father. 

"  Miss  Burt,  is  that  you  ?  Why,  wherever  is 
Miss  Burt?  "  There  was  quite  a  little  stir  amongst 
the  villagers. 

"  Quick,  say  you  will  come."  He  was  still  hold- 
ing her. 

"  I  will  come." 

"  Good-bye,  my  darling." 

He  pressed  her  hand  to  his  lips  and  vanished 
into  the  gloom  as  she  rejoined  her  father.  She  did 
not  see  him  again. 

Her  conscience  smote  her,  and  yet  she  had  been 
innocent  of  any  intention  to  break  her  word.  The 
thing  had  fallen  out  contrary  to  her  expectation 
and  will.  But  it  was  in  accord  with  her  inclination, 
and  she  suffered  a  sense  of  guilt.  As  she  regained 
her  father's  side  the  night  wind,  laden  with  the 
breath  of  the  moor,  swept  over  the  hill,  and  she 
shivered. 

"  You  are  cold,"  he  said  kindly,  "  and  so  am  I. 
Do  you  remember  the  distinction  drawn  by  the 
old  sage,  between  things  within  our  power  and 
things  beyond  control  ?  We  can  do  no  good. 
Let  us  go  home." 

On  their  way  he  talked  without  ceasing  of  the 


The  Fire  of  Bristol  233 

critical  condition  of  the  country,  the  irresponsible 
madness  of  human  passion  when  aroused  to 
violence,  and  the  danger  that  the  spirit  of  destruc- 
tion, once  let  loose,  might  become  rife  in  every 
town  and  hamlet  throughout  the  land.  The  girl 
walked  quietly  by  his  side,  scarcely  following  this 
monologue,  in  which  was  neither  question  nor 
pause.  Did  he  know  that  she  had  talked  with 
Hensley  ?  Rapidly  in  her  mind  was  forming  the 
intention  to  tell  her  father  everything.  She  must 
go  to  the  copse  to-morrow,  but  she  would  say 
that  she  was  going.  She  was  so  overcome 
with  agitation  that  not  to  speak  now  was  a  re- 
lief. 

When  they  reached  home,  laying  his  hand  on 
her  arm,  he  led  her  into  the  study.  The  little 
maidservant  had  slept  through  the  knocking,  and 
the  house  was  quiet  as  the  night ;  but  he  carefully 
closed  the  door,  as  if  still  jealous  to  guard  the 
secret  of  his  life. 

"  Mr.  Hensley  is  back  at  the  farm." 

"  I  could  not  help  it,  Father.     He  spoke " 

"  I  did  not  think  otherwise,"  he  interrupted 
quickly,  waving  his  hand.  "  I  could  never  mistrust 
you,  Marion.  But  I  want  you  to  tell  me  what  he 
has  said  to  you.  Has  he  asked  you  to  marry 
him?" 

The  question  seemed  to  imply  a  doubt.     Here 


234  "Love  and  Quiet  Life" 

again  was  the  old  prejudice  so  ready  to  condemn 
him  unheard. 

"  He  is  going  abroad,"  she  said  coldly.  "  He 
has  asked  me  to  go  with  him." 

"  Where  ?  To  what  ? "  he  asked  in  eager 
anxiety. 

"  I  did  not  inquire.  You  know  I  would  not 
leave  you." 

He  gave  a  sigh  of  relief. 

"  But  if  I  were  no  longer  here  ?  " 

She  hesitated.  A  question  so  direct,  so  real,  so 
free  from  sentimental  weakness,  yet  full  of  fear, 
defied  evasion.  Could  she  promise  to  respect  his 
wishes  in  such  a  matter  when  he  might  no  longer 
claim  her  care?  That  night  obedience  had  been 
well-nigh  impossible  ;  and  were  she  alone,  what 
could  there  be  but  love  ? 

"  I  should  marry  him,"  she  plainly  said. 

"  I  doubt  it  not.  I  know  the  romance,  and  I 
know  the  reality."  There  was  a  momentary 
bitterness  in  his  tone,  and  he  walked  across  the 
room  in  deep  emotion.  "  What  is  there  in  common 
between  you  ?  What  chance  of  companionship 
when  the  first  flush  of  love  is  past  ?  There  is  no 
constancy  is  such  a  nature.  With  you  it  would  be 
deep,  deep ;  and  with  him  the  fancy  of  the 
moment.  Unstable — unstable  as  water,  thou  shalt 
not  excel." 


The  Fire  of  Bristol  235 

He  paused.     Carried  away  by  excitement,  his 
words  had  outstripped  his  intention. 

"  I  know  full  well,"  he  went  on,  "  the  misery  of 
ill-assorted  marriage.     Years  have  passed.    I  make 
no   accusation,   no   complaint.      Our   love   was   a 
dream — a  phantasm  with  no  relation  to  the  facts 
of  life.      Yet  your  mother   loved  me  wildly,  and 
married  me  in  spite  of  friends.     I  had  already  left 
the  Established  Church,  and  that  was  an  objection. 
She   was   rich,   and    I    at    that  time   had   almost 
nothing.     And  I  was  many  years  older  than  she. 
I  was  a  successful    preacher — that  is,  the  people 
flocked  to  hear  me.     And  I  was  full  of  zeal,  God 
forgive  me !  or  ambition.     I  was  strong  enough  to 
be  austere.     There  was  nothing  beyond  my  power 
of  self-denial    but   gentleness   with   frailty.      And 
she  had  always  been  surrounded  with  wealth  and 
frivolity.     She  could  not  breathe  the  severer  air  in 
which  I  lived.     To  her,  learning  was  a  cloud  des- 
troying the  sunlight,  and  life  became  like  a  long 
winter  day.      There  were  no  children   either  for 
several   years,  until   you  came.     And  we  drifted 
apart.    Sometimes  for  days  we  scarcely  spoke,  and 
she  amused  herself  with  friends  of  her  girlhood 
with   whom  I  had  no  sympathy — whom  I  hated. 
I  almost  ceased  to  consider  her,  until  by  a  folly 
my    position,    my   influence   as   a    preacher,   was 
impaired,  and  that  hurt  my  pride.     I  reproved  her. 


236  •'  Love  and  Quiet  Life  " 

and  we  quarrelled.  Through  this  retrospect  of 
years  the  violence  of  my  anger  seems  inconceiv- 
able.    That  evening  she  left  me." 

"  Left  you  ? 

The  girl  could  not  understand. 

"  She  went  abroad  with  her  lover.  She  died  of 
fever  in  another  land,  and  I  never  saw  her  again." 

With  a  cry  of  horror  Marion  threw  her  arms 
around  her  father's  neck  and  hid  her  face  upon  his 
shoulder. 


CHAPTER  XX 

BRIDGETOWN  RIOTS 

The  grey  of  early  morning  was  in  the  air  when 
Marion  parted  from  her  father  and  went  upstairs. 
She  mechanically  drew  the  blind  aside  and  looked 
out  upon  the  cold  moor.  The  trunks  of  pollard 
willows  loomed  through  the  mist,  and  Hensley  was 
already  walking  beside  one  of  the  rhines.  He  had 
stayed  up  the  whole  night,  and  come  down  from 
the  hill  at  sunrise.  But  she  had  not  thought  of 
him,  and  scarcely  saw  him  when  she  glanced  from 
the  window. 

Her  father's  story  had  fallen  upon  her  like  a 
thunderbolt,  crashing  through  the  structure  raised 
by  her  fond  imagination  to  enshrine  those  relics  of 
her  dead  mother.  That  such  things  had  happened 
history  related.  Ancient  drama,  too,  and  epic 
poetry  dealt  with  such  subjects  when  the  earth  was 
young ;  but  even  then  these  sorrows  were  half- 
mythical.  However  living  in  the  presentation,  they 
could  not  stand  before  the  mind  as  facts.  They  had 
no  counterpart  in  this  modern  life  of  civilization 
and  revealed  religion.     Had  such  a  tale  been  told 

837 


238  "Love  and  Quiet  Life" 

of  some  mere  acquaintance,  she  would  have  re- 
fused to  hear — not  because  it  was  painful,  but 
incredible. 

In  the  corner  between  the  fireplace  and  the 
dressing-table  was  an  old  high-backed  chair  covered 
with  chintz.  She  sat  down  and  cried — cried  over 
an  irreparable  loss.  The  blow  was  as  real  as  if 
her  mother  had  been  living  yesterday,  and  now 
lay  dead.  It  shattered  her  ideals,  and  bruised 
the  beauty  of  innocent  love.  And  then  the  pity 
of  it !  Those  years  of  broken-hearted  loneliness 
suffered  by  her  father  !  His  self-accusation  added 
a  last  pathos  to  the  tragedy.  He  could  never  have 
been  other  than  gentle,  as  he  had  always  been  to 
her.     Something  was  broken — something  gone. 

As  morning  grew,  and  objects  in  the  room  be- 
came more  distinct,  the  place  itself  seemed  changed. 
The  pale  sunless  light  glistened  upon  the  miniature 
still  hanging  against  the  wall  and  the  china  dog 
upon  the  mantelpiece,  but  her  joy  had  fled.  Life 
had  been  so  beautiful  in  its  rich  simplicity,  and 
now  the  charm  was  gone.  The  early  twittering  of 
the  birds  outside  her  window  distracted  her,  and 
she  wished  that  they  would  cease,  she,  who  had 
always  listened  so  intently  to  every  living  thing. 
One  touch  of  stern  reality  and  the  bubble  of  her 
romance  was  gone.  At  last,  weary  with  wakeful- 
ness, and  overcome  by  fatigue,  she  fell  asleep. 


Bridgetown  Riots  239 

The  sun  was  high  and  it  was  broad  daylight 
when  she  awoke.  Some  one  was  knocking  at  the 
door,  and  she  sprang  up  in  alarm,  for  it  fitted  to  a 
waking  dream  that  Abraham  was  calling  them 
again.  She  heard  her  father's  step  in  the  passage 
and  listened.  A  woman's  voice,  raised  in  intermin- 
able indignation  and  lament,  fell  upon  her  ears  ; 
and  she  distinguished  the  sing-song  tones  of  Mrs, 
Sandboy,  familiar  enough  in  time  gone  by,  when 
Tamsin  lived  with  them.  She  looked  at  her  watch  ; 
it  was  almost  noon.  Regretful  that  her  father  had 
been  left  alone,  she  performed  a  hasty  toilet  and 
went  downstairs. 

Mrs.  Sandboy  was  standing  in  the  porch.  Her 
red  hair  as  usual  was  loose  upon  her  forehead,  and 
tears  had  stained  her  freckled  cheeks.  The  tale  of 
her  woes,  broken  by  sobs,  was  drawing  to  a  close  ; 
but  at  the  sight  of  Marion  she  began  afresh. 

"  An'  whatever  we  shall  do  I  ca'n't  never  think. 
For  they  do  all  say,  he'll  goo  to  jail  so  sure  as  the 
light,  an'  he  ca'n't  get  nobody  to  swear  he  werden 
there,  for  there  he  wur  act'Iy  a-catched.  An'  they 
do  all  say,  that  now  we've  a-paid  the  zixpence  Mr. 
Poltimore  can  turn  us  all  out  so  safe  as  a  gun. 
For  none  o'  'em  ca'n't  abide  John.  An'  the  wold 
Grammer  they  ca'n't  a-bear.  They'd  be  glad 
enough  to  see  the  backs  o'  us,  I  do  believe.  An' 
however  we  be  to  get  bread,  I  ca'n't  think 


240  "  Love  and  Quiet  Life  " 

"  But  he  never  wouldn'  a-went  if  *t  hadn*  a-bin 
for  some  o'  Upton  lazy  drunken  fellers,  that  coy- 
d'.T:ked  'un  away.  Nor  he  never  wouldn'  a-went 
if  he'd  oonce  a-zet  voot  in  house  that  night,  vor  I 
shouldn'  never  a-let  un  gone.  An'  I  thought. 
Miss  Marion,  that  if  Mr.  Burt  did  jus'  speak  a 
word  to  Mr.  Poltimore,  perhaps " 

It  was  a  forlorn  hope,  too  vague  to  be  ex- 
pressed ;  but  Mr.  Burt  could  never  refuse  a  kind- 
ness. 

"  I  will  go  over  to  Bridgetown  and  see  what  can 
be  done.     But  I  scarcely  know  Mr.  Poltimore." 

The  poor  woman  brightened  up  at  once,  and 
wiped  her  tears  with  the  corner  of  her  apron. 

"  And  how  does  Tamsin  like  her  new  place  ? " 
asked  Marion. 

Mrs.  Sandboy  hesitated  a  moment.  "  She've  a- 
left.  Leastways  so  tranter  did  say.  There,  what 
wi'  one  an'  tother  I'd  so  soon  be  in  my  grave,"  she 
replied.  And  without  another  word  she  turned 
quickly  away  and  walked  down  the  path. 

It  was  not  until  the  end  of  the  week  that  Mr. 
Burt  found  an  opportunity  to  go  into  Bridgetown. 
Every  day  it  rained,  and  he  thought  it  better  to 
walk  than  to  tell  Mr.  John  Culliford  his  errand. 
A  newspaper,  lent  him  by  Mr.  Percival,  contained 
a  full  account  of  the  destructive  riots  in  Bristol,  the 
burning  of  the  public  buildings,  the  firing  on  the 


Bridgetown   Riots  241 

mob,  and  loss  of  life.  Rumours  were  also  rife  in 
Sutton  of  disturbances  in  other  towns ;  but  these, 
being  merely  hearsay,  did  not  reach  the  inmates 
of  the  house  on  the  moor. 

On  the  Friday  after  breakfast,  he  glanced  at  the 
sky  and  determined  to  start. 

"  I  will  walk  part  of  the  way  with  you,"  said 
Marion,  and  she  brought  his  umbrella  and  helped 
him  on  with  his  coat. 

The  lower  part  of  the  moor  was  under  water, 
and  the  road  was  everywhere  covered  with  pools 
of  mud.  She  felt  uneasy  at  the  discomfort  of  his 
journey. 

"  I  wish  you  could  have  been  driven  as  before," 
she  said. 

"  I  am  almost  glad  to  walk." 

A  little  later,  with  a  great  clanging  of  accoutre- 
ments, there  came  behind  them  from  the  village 
at  full  trot  the  Sutton  detachment  of  Yeomanry 
Cavalry,  in  full  regimentals  now,  Mr.  John  Culli- 
ford  in  front,  then  Abraham,  and  Josiah  with  his 
hand  on  his  helmet. 

"  They  must  be  going  somewhere  to  exercise," 
said  Mr.  Burt,  as  he  stepped  back  from  the  splash- 
ing; hoofs.  "  So  I  could  not  have  been  driven  had 
I  wished." 

"  You  will  not  stay  long  ?  "  urged  Marion,  when 
it  was  time  for  her  to  return, 

16 


242  "Love  and  Quiet  Life" 

"Oh  dear  no,  my  dear,"  he  replied.  "I  shall 
make  haste.  The  afternoons  get  dark  so  early 
now." 

"  I  shall  watch,  and  start  to  meet  you  when  you 
come  in  sight  upon  the  moor,"  she  said  cheerfully 
as  they  parted,  and  she  several  times  looked  back 
at  his  retreating  figure.  Nothing  in  the  future 
should  cast  a  shadow  upon  their  love. 

He  trudged  steadily  on.  He  had  little  con- 
fidence in  the  result  of  his  intended  visit  to 
Mr.  Poltimore,  but  he  carefully  marshalled  his 
arguments.  He  would  not  defend  lawlessness, 
nor  offend  the  susceptibilities  of  Mr.  Poltimore  by 
an  uncalled-for  criticism  of  the  game  laws.  He 
would  appeal  to  that  outraged  dignitary  on  the 
ground  of  charity  and  loving-kindness,  and  the 
misfortune  which  must  befall  a  household  by  the 
temporary  withdrawal  of  the  bread-winner.  By 
the  time  he  reached  the  outskirts  of  the  little  town 
he  had  composed  quite  a  speech,  and  he  stopped 
at  the  turrrpike,  and  inquired  the  way  to  Mr. 
Poltimore's  house.  He  thought  the  woman  who 
answered  looked  scared  and  regarded  him 
strangely. 

The  entrance  to  the  town  also  looked  strancre. 
It  was  a  wide  street,  with  houses  of  some  pretension 
standing  in  gardens,  or  behind  iron  railings  ;  but  it 
seemed  completely   forsaken.       He   stood   in  the 


Bridgetown  Riots  243 

middle  of  the  road  and  looked  around.  Windows 
provided  with  shutters  were  without  exception  shut, 
and  Mr.  Burt's  first  impression  was  that  some  dis- 
tinguished townsman  must  have  died,  and  that 
Bridgetown  was  paying  respect  to  the  day  of  his 
funeral.  But  just  then  on  the  breeze  came  a  sound 
of  shouting.  The  centre  of  the  town,  the  shops,  the 
fountain,  the  market-place,  and  the  town-hall  were 
at  some  little  distance.  Mr.  Burt  felt  perplexed, 
and  doubtful  that  he  might  not  find  Mr.  Poltimore 
at  home,  but  he  continued  on  his  way. 

Then  he  passed  occasional  shops,  but  all  were 
closed.  Groups  of  people  excitedly  talking  were 
standing  at  corners  and  in  the  streets.  He  stood 
in  indecision,  doubtful  whom  he  should  address ; 
and  still  the  shouting  increased  to  a  roar,  and  sud- 
denly behind  him  from  a  bye-way  there  came  a 
rush  of  men  and  boys  yelling  and  waving  sticks. 
They  stopped  before  a  house  with  a  paved  court  in 
front,  smashed  the  windows,  burst  open  the  door 
and  rushed  in. 

Greatly  disturbed  by  the  presence  of  this  spirit 
of  lawlessness,  Mr.  Burt  hurried  away,  and  entered 
the  market  square,  at  one  end  of  which  stood 
the  town  hall.  The  Yeomanry  Cavalry  were  drawn 
up  before  the  building.  The  place  was  thronged 
with  people,  many  of  them  denouncing  the  author- 
ities.    "  Where  are  the  magistrates  ?  "      "  Why  do 


244  "  Love  and  Quiet  Life  ' 

not  the  cavalry  clear  the  streets  ?  "  "  Why  is  not 
the  Riot  Act  read  ?  " 

Then  a  general  cry,  "  The  Riot  Act ! "  "  The  Riot 
Act !  " 

It  seemed  to  be  the  universal  belief  that  this 
celebrated  statute  was  a  cure  for  all.  Yet 
many  present,  and  perhaps  some  who  cried  the 
loudest,  were  on  the  side  of  disorder ;  for  stones 
were  flying  in  all  directions.  And  the  crowd 
pressed  from  behind,  until  it  became  so  packed 
that  Mr.  Burt  could  scarcely  move,  and  withdrawal 
was  rendered  impossible. 

At  last  upon  the  steps  of  the  hall  appeared  Mr. 
Poltimore  himself  in  gown  and  chain,  and  supported 
by  the  Alderman  and  Municipal  Council  of  Bridge- 
town. In  his  hand  was  a  large  calf-bound  volume 
of  statutes,  for  in  this  matter  verbal  accuracy  was 
held  to  be  of  the  highest  importance.  Then  in  a 
loud  voice  he  made  proclamation  in  these  words: — 

"  Our  Sovereign  Lord  the  King  chargeth  and  com- 
niandeth  all  Persons,  being  assembled,  immediately 
to  disperse  themselves  aiid peaceably  to  depart  to  their 
Habitations,  or  to  their  lawful  business,  upon  the 
pains  contained  in  the  Act  made  in  the  first  year  of 
King  George,  for  preventing  tumults  and  riotous 
Assemblies" 

"  We  had  better  clear  out,"  cried  a  bystander,  a 


Bridgetown  Riots  245 

nervous  man  with  a  grey  beard.  "The  Yeomanry 
can  charge  now.  They  can  knock  anybody  down 
now  in  the  King's  name." 

"  Not  for  an  hour,"  retorted  a  dogged  citizen  of 
Bridgetown,  with  a  square,  contradictory  face. 

"  I  tell  you  they  can  shoot  and  knock  down 
every  man  here.  They  can  do  what  they  like  in 
the  King's  name.     'Tis  your  own  fault  if  you  stay." 

"  And  I  say  by  law  you've  got  one  hour,  and 
they  don't  dare  to " 

A  universal  cry,  "  They  are  coming  !  The  Yeo- 
manry are  coming ! "  cut  short  the  altercation. 
The  man  of  legal  mind  pushed  the  hardest  to 
squeeze  out  of  the  way.  But  now  on  all  sides  there 
were  shouts.  "  The  mob  is  in  the  Mayor's  house." 
"  They  are  sacking  Mr.  Poltimore's  house."  "  They 
are  going  to  set  fire  to  Mr.  Poltimope's  house." 

The  Yeomanry  advanced  slowly  through  the 
square,  pushing  back  the  crowd  on  either  side 
Some  people  cheered.  But  missiles  began  to  fall 
like  hail,  and  it  was  seen  that  in  some  places  men 
had  found  access  to  the  housetops  and  were 
throwing  tiles  and  coping-stones  down  into  the 
street.  For  their  own  safety,  law-abiding  persons 
who  had  come  only  as  spectators  began  to  escape 
by  every  possible  outlet.  The  place  was  left  to 
the  rabble  and  the  troops.  But  there  was  now 
room  to  move,  and  Mr.  Burt,  finding  a  narrow  alley 


246  "  Love  and  Quiet  Life  " 

between  some  houses,  hurried  back  into  the  street 
by  which  he  had  entered  the  market-place.  His 
only  desire  was  to  get  away  from  this  terrible 
violence  and  lawlessness,  so  uncongenial  to  his 
gentle  spirit,  and  return  to  Sutton.  But  that  was 
not  so  easy. 

In  front  of  Mr.  Poltimore's  house  was  a  scene  of 
wild  confusion  ;  for  the  rioters,  unchecked  and 
given  over  to  the  demon  of  destruction,  had  broken 
up  and  were  throwing  the  furniture  into  the  road. 
The  pavement  was  strewn  with  broken  bottles,  and 
wine  was  dripping  into  the  gutters  as  red  as  blood. 
Many  of  the  mob  were  already  drunk,  and  with  a 
grim  hilarity,  pelted  each  other  with  books  from 
Mr.  Poltimore's  library.  A  calf-bounJ  volume 
fell  at  Mr,  Burt's  feet.  This  wanton  waste  was  to 
him  so  pitiable,  that  he  picked  it  up  and  stood 
there  with  it  in  his  hand.  But  the  grim  humours 
of  brutality  appalled  him  more  than  the  stone- 
throwing  in  the  square,  and  he  shrank  from  push- 
ing his  way  through  the  rabble. 

A  strangely  pathetic  figure — grey-haired  and 
irresolute,  standing  with  a  book  in  one  hand  and 
his  umbrella  in  the  other  ! 

Some  one  spoke  to  him. 

"  You  had  better  go  away,  Mr.  Burt.  You  will 
get  hurt,  Sir." 

He  did  not  know  the  man,  but  he  thanked  him, 


Bridgetown  Riots  247 

and  helplessly  turned  back  towards  the  market- 
place. 

There  rose  a  cry,  "  The  Yeomanry !  The 
Yeomanry  !  " 

At  that  moment  some  score  of  troopers  came 
round  the  corner  and  galloped  towards  them. 
The  stranger  quickly  taking  his  arm  dragged  him 
into  a  doorway  opening  upon  the  pavement,  and 
many  of  the  rioters,  alarmed  at  the  approach  of 
horses,  ran  within  the  railings  of  Mr.  Poltimore's 
house  or  sought  some  other  refuge.  The  few 
who,  excited  with  stolen  wine,  dared  to  remain, 
discharged  a  volley  of  stones  and  fled.  Hotly 
pursued,  they  took  advantage  of  every  nook  and 
corner  afforded  by  the  ancient  architecture  of 
Bridgetown  to  effect  escape  by  running  back  when 
the  horsemen  had  ridden  past. 

The  doorway  in  which  Mr.  Burt  stood  became 
the  haven  of  a  little  body  of  refugees.  The  street 
itself  was  now  cleared.  For  a  few  minutes  they 
remained  unobserved  ;  but,  now  and  again,  one  of 
them  would  rush  out,  hurl  a  stone  at  the  back  of 
a  passing  yeoman,  and  return.  The  necessity  to 
expostulate  with  iniquity  overcame  his  constitu- 
tional fear.  He  began  to  speak,  and  at  the  sound 
of  his  own  words  his  heart  gained  courage. 

"  Have  you  no  consideration  ?  "  he  cried,  "  or 
is   all    reflection   swallowed    up   by   the   spirit   of 


248  "  Love  and  Quiet  Life  " 

devastation  and  wrath?  which  can  avail  you 
nothing  to  advance  your  ends.  Even  should  you 
triumph  for  an  hour,  for  what  benefit  can  you 
hope?  Can  the  destruction  of  riches  relieve  the 
ills  of  poverty  ;  or  the  performance  of  evil  call 
down  upon  you  the  reward  of  good  ?  Or  if  anger 
has  driven  judgment  from  your  hearts,  have  you 
no  thought  that  strength  will  prevail,  and  the  lives 
of  all  who  may  be  taken  this  day  must  fall  forfeit 
to  the  law  ?  " 

No  one  paid  sufficient  heed  even  to  deride,  until 
a  passing  trooper,  attracted  by  the  voice,  suddenly 
turned  and  rode  down  upon  the  little  group.  The 
horse  came  clattering  upon  the  pavement  into  the 
doorway  ;  the  rioters  dispersed  and  fled.  Yielding 
to  the  instinct  of  self-preservation,  Mr.  Burt  raised 
his  umbrella  and  struck.  Then,  as  the  trooper 
leapt  to  the  ground,  and  seized  him  by  the  collar, 
he  looked  into  his  eyes,  and  recognised  Mr, 
Hensley! 

He  fell  back  and  slipped  down  upon  the  door- 
step. 

The  rioters  were  by  this  time  dispersed,  and  the 
Yeomanry  chiefly  engaged  in  the  apprehension  of 
prisoners.  Mr.  Hensley  bent  down  and  raised  the 
prostrate  figure,  loosened  the  white  neck-cloth, 
and  placed  the  flask  to  his  lips,  just  as  he  had  done 
on  that  first  night  upon  the  hill.     He  called  to 


Bridgetown  Riots  249 

Mr.  John  Culliford,  galloping  past  ;  and  Abraham 
and  Josiah  also  came. 

They  knocked  at  the  door,  and  carried  him  out  of 
the  hubbub  into  the  house.  But  no  hubbub  could 
disturb,  no  earthly  habitation  shelter  that  peaceful 
spirit.     For  James  Burt  never  spoke  again. 

Such  was  the  story  of  the  Bridgetown  riots,  in 
which,  as  if  in  irony  of  human  passion,  only  this 
one  gentle  life  was  sacrificed.  For  even  the 
prisoners  taken  were  afterwards  set  free,  on  the 
ground  that  when  Mr.  Poltimore  read  his  Proclama- 
tion he  omitted  to  say  "God  save  the  King"  at 
the  end. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

NO   ONE  LEFT 

"  So  much  the  more  and  higher  thhigs  doth  he  under- 
stand without  labour^  The  words  of  her  father's 
reading  on  that  last  Sunday  night  came  back  to 
her  again  and  again,  haunting  her  brain  in  incom- 
plete phrases  meaningless  and  vain. 

"  We  can  understand  nothing,"  she  cried  in  hard- 
ness of  heart. 

She  was  standing  by  the  old  familiar  spot  where 
her  father  fainted,  where  they  so  often  paused  to 
look  at  the  wind-driven  clouds,  the  fleeting  sun- 
light on  the  broad  plain,  the  streak  of  silver  sea 
beyond  the  distant  hills.  In  the  copse  close  by 
her  lover  had  first  spoken  of  love.  She  lingered 
with  these  associations,  and  felt  the  bitterness  of 
life.  Her  heart  was  broken.  The  earth  was  still 
beautiful,  but  only  as  a  dead  fact  gathered  by 
experience  and  stored  in  the  memory  ;  for  the  de- 
light was  gone. 

Her  father  had  been  buried  many  weeks.  The 
circumstances  of  his  death  were  known  to  her  in 

every   detail.      Mrs.    Culliford    and    Mrs.    Carew 

250 


No  ONE  Left  251 

agreed  it  was  nothing  but  right  she  should  know, 
and  recognising  her  solitary  condition,  called  to 
administer  consolation  and  advice.  They  showed 
a  truly  deep  anxiety  in  her  future,  in  the  sufficiency 
of  her  means,  in  the  existence  of  any  distant  rela- 
tive to  whom  she  might  go — for  really  to  be  keep- 
ing up  a  house  for  one,  unless  of  course  where 
there  is  a  plenty,  is  such  a  great  expense.  They 
spoke  frankly  of  the  gossip  which  had  gone  all 
over  the  parish,  and  condemned  a  tendency  in 
human  nature  to  tattle  about  the  affairs  of  others. 
But  of  course  now  she  could  think  no  more  of  Mr. 
Hensley.  A  pleasant  man,  no  doubt,  and  good 
company.  But  la !  What  good  is  that  if  every 
penny  do  burn  a  hole  in  the  pocket  ?  A  man  of 
no  principle,  Mrs.  Carewwas  very  much  afraid.  In 
Bridgetown  there  was  a  sound  that  to  prevent 
being  taken  for  debt  he  had  gone  abroad.     And 

the  best  thing  he  could  do,  for  really 

There  was  not  a  soul  to  sympathise.  Mr.  Perci- 
val  had  undertaken  the  management  of  her  affairs, 
but  Marion  could  not  talk  to  him.  By  the  grave- 
side, mutual  grief  at  the  loss  of  their  gentle  neigh- 
bour brought  about  a  reconciliation  between  the 
clergyman  and  Mr.  John  Culliford,  and  there  was 
to  be  no  further  use  for  the  barn.  Mr.  Percival 
intended  to  alter  it  to  a  school-house  ;  but  Marion 
had  declined  to  help  him  in  his  scheme. 


252  "Love  and  Quiet  Life" 

It  seemed  that  every  interest  in  existence  was 
taken  away.  Love  was  lost,  affection  dead,  and  a 
blight  had  stripped  memory  of  its  blossoms.  What 
could  there  be  to  follow  but  a  summer  without 
beauty,  and  an  autumn  without  fruit  ?  A  flight  of 
plovers,  pitched  in  the  arable  field  on  the  hill-side, 
disturbed  by  something  passing  up  the  lane,  rose 
high  in  the  air,  and  passed  over  the  road  with  an 
occasional  cry  which  sounded  like  a  lament. 

In  the  hollow  a  carter  cracked  his  whip  and 
spoke  to  his  horses ;  and  with  a  creaking  and 
rumbling  of  wheels  a  wagon  presently  mounted  the 
knap  and  turned  into  the  high  road.  It  was  laden 
with  household  goods,  but  still  there  was  room  for 
Grammer  and  the  smallest  of  the  Sandboy  chil- 
dren. On  the  level  road  it  stopped  whilst  Mrs. 
Sandboy  climbed  up  to  sit  upon  the  fore-board 
piece.  Marion  glanced  at  the  great  red  letters  on 
the  yellow  ground,  but  the  name  of  the  owner  and 
his  parish  were  both  unknown  to  her. 

Absorbed  in  her  own  troubles,  she  had  forgotten 
the  fortunes  of  the  Sandboy  family.  Whether  John 
Sandboy  had  been  taken  or  even  pursued,  she  did 
not  know  ;  but  the  rickety  pile  of  furniture  told  its 
own  tale.  She  stepped  further  into  the  road  and 
waited  to  stop  the  wagon. 

"Are  you  going  to  leave  Sutton,  Mrs.  Sand- 
boy?" 


No  ONE  Left  253 

"  Ees,  zure.  We've  a-got  to  goo.  Mr.  Polti- 
more  have  a-tookt  the  house  away.  He  'oon't  ha' 
no  poachen  on  his  Lordship's  estate,  zo  he  zaid. 
An'  they  had  a  warr'nt  out  against  John,  but  there, 
he  kep'  out  o'  the  way  ;  an'  zo  Mr.  Poltimore  he 
zaid  we  could  clear  out  to  once,  an'  hear  no  more 
o'  it,  if  we  wur  a-minded.  An'  zo  we've  a-had  to 
gie  up  the  house  that  the  wold  man  builded  his- 
zelf.  But  John  have  a-vound  work  up  the  country 
where  labouren  volk  be  sca'ce.  Though  I  never 
don't  believe  'tes  law  for  all  that.  N'eet  that  ever 
'twur  his  Lordship's  groun' — a  little  corner  that 
nobody  never  tookt  no  'count  o'  till  the  wold  man 
builded  the  house.  But  we  be  boun'  to  goo. 
Needs  mus'  when  the  devil  do  pull.  Not  but  what 
there'll  be  a  end  to  it  oone  o'  theas  days.  There'll 
be  a  revolution  zo  zure  as  the  sun.  An'  I  be  glad 
o'  my  heart  o'  it.  I  wish  they'd  a-burned  down 
wold  Poltimore's  house — an'  I  wish  they'd  a-burned 
he.  Good-bye,  Miss  Marion.  I  do  wish  'ee  luck. 
Goo  on,  carter.  Oh,  ees  !  there'll  be  a  revolution. 
Poor  volk  'oon't  be  put  upon  for  ever  by  the  rich. 
Or  if  they  be  in  this  life  there's  some  'all  vin'  out 
their  mistake  when  they  do  goo  here-vrom.  Drave 
on,  carter.  Let's  git  out  o'  it.  Good-bye,  Miss 
Marion.  Ees,  they'll  vin'  their  mistake  when  they 
be  down  in " 

Thus  the  sound  of  her  shrill  voice,  continuing  to 


2  54  "Love  and  Quiet  Life" 

interject  fierce  discontent,  died  away  in  the  distant 
rumble  of  the  wheels. 

Marion  watched  the  wagon  out  of  sight  For- 
merly the  pathos  of  this  exodus  would  have  moved 
her  to  pity,  perhaps  to  tears,  but  now  only  indig- 
nation surged  within  her  soul.  They  were  all  gone, 
Faith  and  Hope  and  Charity — those  never-failing 
companions  of  her  happy  girlhood.  They  had 
fled  affrighted  from  the  realities  of  life,  leaving  her 
heart  untenanted  and  dumb.  For  once  it  would 
have  been  quite  easy  to  say,  "  You  must  trust  in 
Providence  "  ;  or  to  smile  "  But  perhaps  you  will 
like  your  new  home  better  than  Sutton,  Mrs.  Sand- 
boy " ;  or  to  see  the  want  and  feel  the  happiness  of 
giving  alms.  But  now  she  stood  until  the  wagon 
had  passed  out  of  hearing,  and  it  was  too  late  to 
call.  Then  she  blamed  herself  for  having  made  no 
response  to  Mrs.  Sandboy's  good  wishes — for  hav- 
ing forgotten  to  offer  her  a  parting  gift — for  having 
failed  to  inquire  for  Tamsin. 

That  was  the  one  throb  of  vitality  in  her  numbed 
existence,  a  thought  of  Tamsin — a  feeling,  instinc- 
tive but  inconstant,  that  could  she  only  bring  that 
freckled  child  of  simplicity  back  into  the  house  she 
might  again  live  in  the  warmth  of  a  human  pre- 
sence. Tamsin  at  least  was  young  and  full  of 
hope,  and  loved  her.  But  now  the  possibility  was 
gone.  The  Sandboys  would  never  again  be  heard 
of  in  Sutton. 


No  ONE  Left  255 

Suddenly  a  February  rain  came  pattering  against 
the  parched  leaves  still  clinging  to  the  beech  trees 
in  the  cover.  Let  it  come  !  Hailstones  struck 
against  the  wall,  and  covered  the  patches  of  grass 
between  the  heather  and  the  gorse,  making  them 
white  and  cold  as  a  winding-sheet.  She  did  not 
hurry  home,  but  crept  into  the  hollow,  where  the 
wind  and  storm  moaned  against  the  swaying  pines 
and  beat  between  the  naked  branches  overhead. 
The  spirit  of  the  winter  blast  was  in  sympathy  with 
her  thoughts.  It  had  no  heart  and  no  tenderness, 
but  sported  with  the  poverty-stricken  earth  as  Sin 
and  Death  and  Fate  sport  with  human  existence. 
She  stood  under  the  shelter  of  the  bank  and 
waited.     She  had  nothing  to  do  with  her  time. 

At  last  the  tempest  blew  over,  and  she  walked 
down  the  lane  into  the  village.  Tranter  Coombs' 
van  was  drawn  up  before  the  White  Hart  inn 
whilst  he  harangued  a  full  muster  of  village 
worthies.  She  could  see  them  within  through  the 
inn-window  as  she  hurried  by  anxious  to  escape 
observation.  Standing  on  the  causeway  was  Mrs. 
Clarke. 

"  Zo  the  Zandboys  be  all  a-gone,  Miss  Burt. 
Wull !  they've  a-got  only  theirselves  to  thank. 
Nobody  ca'n't  pity  'em.  Still  I  be  sorry  o'  my  life 
about  Tamsin.  An'  you  thought  zo  much  o'  her 
too— didn'  'ee  ?  " 


256  "Love  and  Quiet  Life" 

"  What  do  you  mean  about  Tamsin  ?  " 

"They  were  just  a-laughen  by-now  to  hear 
tranter  a-tellen  o'  it  Oh,  she've  a-gone  wrong,  zo 
they  do  zay.  She  had  a  fancy  for  thik  young 
Hensley  up  to  Farm,  simzo.  But  what  can  'ee 
expect  wi'  zuch  volk  as " 

"  It  is  a  He,"  cried  the  girl  bitterly.  "  A  wicked 
lie  !  But  what  can  you  expect  from  the  fools  that 
laugh?" 

She  stood  tall  and  erect  in  her  black  mourning, 
and  glared  resentment — fierce  in  her  last  defence 
of  Love — her  last  clutching  at  the  skirt  of  Tamsin. 
Then  without  another  word  she  strode  home  to 
the  solitary  square  house,  leaving  Mrs.  Clarke  lost 
in  amazement. 

From  that  day  the  villagers  began  to  look  at 
her  askance. 

As  Mrs.  Culliford  said  to  Mrs.  Carevv  when  they 
talked  over  the  storj'-,  "  Zure,  I  do  verily  believe 
the  poor  maid  mus'  be  off  her  head.  She  didn' 
ought  to  be  let  live  alone  like  that." 

"  No  more  she  didn',"  agreed  Mrs.  Carew.  "  An' 
eet  I  spwose  if  any  sober  body  wur  to  offer  to  bide 
wi'  her,  she'd  only  up  to  once  an'  jump  down  the 
droat  o'  em  for  their  trouble. 


CHAPTER    XXII 

TAMSIirS  RETURN' 

So  the  time  passed.  Spring  covered  the  earth  with 
life  and  freshness,  and  on  the  south-west  wind  from 
beyond  the  willow  trees  came  the  scent  of  a  field 
of  beans.  Everything  in  Sutton  was  renewed  ex- 
cept the  wayside  cottage  falling  into  waste.  And 
there  Nature  herself  ran  wild  ;  for  the  lilac-bush 
was  spreading  over  the  path,  although  the  garden 
hatch  was  gone  and  the  village  boys  had  broken 
all  the  windows. 

It  was  on  a  Wednesday  about  midday  when 
Tamsin  came  across  the  moor.  No  one  noticed 
her,  or  if  so  it  was  without  recognition,  for  she  was 
changed,  and  the  shawl  upon  her  shoulders  hid  the 
burden  that  she  carried. 

The  village  street  was  always  empty  at  that 
hour,  and  she  came  and  stood  in  the  roadway  in 
front  of  her  deserted  home.  To  come  had  cost 
her  many  a  pang,  and  many  a  dreary  mile  had  she 
tramped  ;  now  she  stared  vacantly  at  the  desola- 
tion, for  the  calamity  was  incomprehensible  and  left 
her  no  resource.  She  sat  down  on  the  bank  be- 
as?  17 


258  "Love  and  Quiet  Life" 

neath  the  opposite  hedgerow  where  the  ditch  was 
dry,  and  cried. 

Josiah's  children,  happy  in  a  half-holiday,  came 
trooping  from  Upton  by  the  footpath  across  the 
fields.  Full  of  the  business  of  childhood,  the  little 
maids  held  cowslips  in  their  hands,  and  the  boy 
with  a  strent  in  his  jacket  carried  a  kestrel's  egg  in 
his  cap.  Full  a  minute  they  stared  at  Tamsin 
with  a  wonder  innocent  and  open-mouthed,  and 
then  went  running  down  the  street.  The  parish, 
soon  apprised  that  excitement  was  afoot,  came  out 
of  doors  ;  but  who  should  be  the  first  to  speak  to 
Tamsin? 

"  Zomebody  ought  to  tell  the  'ooman  what  she 
really  is,"  shrieked  the  shrill  morality  of  Mrs. 
Carew.  As  if  poor  Tamsin  would  be  the  last  to 
know  ! 

"  An'  jus'  ask  she  who've  a-got  to  pay  the  rates, 
I  wonder,"  added  Abraham. 

But  nobody  spoke  to  her.  In  twos  and  threes 
the  villagers  walked  by  to  look,  noting  each  detail, 
but  never  fathoming  the  depth  of  her  need  ;  and 
as  the  wind  whitened  the  hedgerow  with  the  dust 
stirred  by  their  passing  footsteps,  Tamsin  drew  the 
shawl  closer  upon  the  desert  of  her  breast  and 
wept.  The  motherly  heart  of  Mrs.  Clarke  softened 
at  the  sight.  She  brought  bread  in  her  white  apron 
and  a  drink  of  milk  in   Josiah's  little  brown  cup. 


Tamsin's  Return  259 

Yet  even  she  became  profuse  of  explanation  that 
what  she  really  thought  of  was  the  child. 

Mrs.  Carew  had  cooked  that  morning,  and  that 
laid  her  under  a  clearly  recognised  responsibility, 
a  tyranny  more  absolute  than  famine.  Josiah  was 
hungry,  and  that  put  Mrs.  Clarke  in  haste.  And 
so,  as  it  was  past  noon,  the  street  quickly  became 
empty.  Then  Tamsin  unobserved  crossed  to  the 
cottage,  lingered  by  the  posts  on  which  the  bee- 
butts  used  to  stand,  and  peered  through  the  broken 
window  at  the  desolate  hearth.  When  the  villacre 
had  finished  its  midday  meal  she  was  nowhere  to 
be  seen. 

"  La !  Miss  Marion,"  cried  a  breathless  little 
servant-maid,  returning  from  some  errand  that 
afternoon.  "  Tamsin  Zan"boy  have  a-bin  drough 
Zutton  a  little  bit  by  now — wi'  her  shoes  in  holes 
— an'  a  baby  vive  month  old — an' " 

"  Where  is  she  ?  " 

"  Gone,  Miss  Marion." 

"  Gone  ?  " 

"  Nobody  can't  tell  where.  Miss  Marion,  unless 
she've  a-tramped  on  home  to  her  volk.  An'  they 
do  zay  down  in  parish  that  Mr.  Hensley,  he  what 
used  to  bide  up  to  farm,  is  the " 

The  child  stopped  abruptly,  suddenly  self- 
convicted  of  the  offence  of  talking  scandal.     They 


/ 


26o  "  Love  and  Ouiet  Life  " 

were  planting  the  border  by  the  laurel  hedge  that 
day  ;  for  Marion  still  tended  the  garden,  although 
more  from  the  force  of  habit  than  a  thought  of  the 
flowers.  The  trowel  fell  from  her  hand,  but  with 
an  effort  she  controlled  herself.  "  You  can  finish 
this,"  she  said,  and  went  into  the  house. 

The  full  import  of  that  unfinished  sentence  had 
flashed  across  her  mind.  She  entered  the  study, 
where  her  father's  books  and  papers  remained  un- 
touched upon  the  table,  and  the  sight  of  them 
seemed  to  bring  back  his  gentle  presence.  The  old 
calf-bound  volume  with  its  pious  wisdom  lay  open 
upon  the  chair.  Had  he  been  right  ?  He  who 
never  uttered  ill  of  any  man  but  this.  The  last 
illusion  of  her  love  was  fading.  In  her  brooding 
hopelessness  she  had  kept  alive  her  sorrow  with 
dreams  of  what  might  have  been.  Now  she  knew 
that  nothing  might  have  been — except  misery.  The 
man  could  not  love  as  she  had  known  and  pictured 
love. 

And  yet  the  vulgar  tattle  of  the  village  might  be 
false.  Had  she  only  seen  Tamsin  she  might  have 
searched  the  past  with  a  glance  and  learnt  all  with- 
out words,  she  thought. 

She  must  see  Tamsin.  To  return  to  her  folk  the 
girl  must  pass  over  the  hill  and  could  not  yet  have 
gone  far.  By  crossing  the  fields  it  might  still  be 
possible  to  intercept  her.     But  there  was  no  time 


Tamsin's  Return  261 

to  lose.  Quickly  Marion  went  out,  passed  the 
willow  trees,  and  took  the  footpath  by  the  rookery, 
just  as  twelve  months  ago  when  she  went  to  meet 
her  lover. 

Everything  was  changed.  The  road  was  solitary, 
but  the  clink  of  labourers'  tools  came  from  the 
gravel-pit  in  which  they  once  sat.  She  walked 
toward  the  wood.  The  heap  of  stones  above  the 
knap  was  gone  ;  and  undergrowth  had  filled  the 
gap  by  which  she  once  walked  down  to  the  pit. 

She  stood  by  the  wall,  and  looked  at  the  blue 
hills. 

And  lo !  the  past  came  creeping  home  into  her 
heart ;  but  now  her  father,  not  her  lover,  was  by  her 
side.  And  the  beauty  had  come  back.  The  trees 
rustled,  the  meadows  billowed  to  the  wind,  and 
down  in  the  village  on  one  of  the  elms  before 
her  house  a  thrush  was  singing  as  it  sang  the  day 
she  found  her  mother's  portrait.  Perhaps  it  was 
the  same  bird.  Who  could  tell  ?  And  yet  she 
thought  it  had  a  fuller  note.  And  the  history  of 
the  last  two  years  came  back  with  deeper  under- 
standing, and  the  pity  of  it  filled  her  heart.  And 
she  leaned  upon  the  lichen-covered  wall,  and 
hid  her  face,  and  cried — for  her  mother's  sin — her 
father's  sadness  —  for  the  solitude  of  life  —  for 
Tamsin. 

But  Tamsin  did  not  come. 


262  "  Love  and  Ouiet  Life  " 

It  was  evening  when  Marion  passed  through  the 
hollow  to  go  home^  and  as  she  caught  sight  of  the 
tithe-barn  with  its  new  thatched  roof  gleaming 
yellow  between  the  trees  the  longing  for  occupation 
returned.  She  would  write  to  Mr.  Percival  and 
ask  if  she  might  have  the  school,  she  thought. 

The  villagers  were  standing  at  their  doors  or  sit- 
ting on  the  doorsteps  to  chat,  and  they  narrowly 
watched  her  up  the  street.  She  knew  of  what  they 
gossiped,  but  her  resentment  had  fled,  and  indeed 
she  scarcely  noticed  them.  Her  soul  was  satisfied 
with  her  new-found  resignation,  and  she  felt  at 
peace.  But  as  she  passed  the  cottage  an  unex- 
pected sound  arrested  her  attention.  Within  the 
desolate  walls  a  child  was  crying.  She  went  quickly 
through  the  hatch  beneath  the  lilac-bush,  and  tried 
the  weather-beaten  door.  It  yielded  to  her  push, 
and  in  the  chimney  seat  of  what  had  once  been 
the  Sandboys'  kitchen  sat  Tamsin,  rocking  her 
hungry  child  to  and  fro. 

"  Tamsin,  you  shall  come  with  me." 

"  I  couldn't,"  she  answered  feebly,  turning 
towards  the  wall. 

"  You  must." 

Thus  Tamsin  came  back  to  the  square  house. 

Mrs.  Carew  stepped  out  upon  the  causeway  and 
watched  them  pass  up  the  garden  path. 


A    POSTSCRIPT 

More  than  three  score  years  have  passed,  and 
things  have  changed  ;  but  not  greatly  so  in  Sutton. 

The  white  house  stands  at  the  corner  of  the 
road,  and  Marion  Burt  is  still  alive.  She  walks 
sometimes  in  summer  on  the  garden  path.  For 
the  heart  cannot  die  of  love.  And  she  has  long 
lived  happy — happy  in  the  love  of  all  and  in  a 
quiet  life. 

And  Tamsin  long  outlived  her  shame,  to  smile 
in  soft  contentment  when  her  daughter's  boys 
played  hick-stone  on  the  causeway-flags  before  the 
cottage  door. 

But  she  is  gone  this  twenty  years  ago. 

And  all  the  rest  are  gone — gone  like  the  phan- 
toms that  we  are. 

Abraham  has  said  his  last  "  Amen." 

Josiah's  son  lives  at  the  Manor  Farm.  He 
learnt  his  letters  after  Marion  kept  the  school. 
One  summer  afternoon  the  children  were  dismissed 
and  he  was  standing  on  the  stool  when  Mr. 
Percival  came  through  the  drang.  And  when  she 
heard  the  step  she  let  him  go,  for  Mr.  Percival  was 

263 


264  A  Postscript 

leaving  Sutton  for  a  town,  and  the  boy's  disgrace, 
she  said,  would  be  a  sad  "  good-bye."  In  the  field 
beyond  the  lane  was  Abraham  calling  to  his  cows. 

"  I  do  not  know  what  I  shall  do  when  you  are 
gone,"  she  said  quite  earnestly,  and  with  deep 
regret. 

He  looked  at  her  strangely  as  if  the  feeling  which 
her  words  conveyed  encouraged  a  response. 

"  Marion,"  he  said,  taking  both  her  hands  in  his, 
"  if  you  will " 

But  no,  she  could  not  marry  him,  and  so,  as  a 
sacred  confidence,  let  the  words  remain  unwritten. 
After  leaving  Sutton  he  wrote  many  times,  and  then 
at  last  she  heard  no  more.  All  the  parish  knew 
that  Mr.  Percival  wanted  Marion  Burt.  But  she 
would  never  marry.  For  girlhood  was  a  dream — 
and  an  awakening  —  and  then  to  dream  again 
another  thing. 

Yet  still  she  dreams  about  the  man  she  loved — 
to-night,  as  silver-haired  she  sits  beside  the  bed- 
room window  waiting  for  the  sunset  to  sink  behind 
the  moor. 

FINIS. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 

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R21  1  "Love  and  the 
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